James S Potter and the Secrets of the Unmade
by SGTwhiskeyjack
Summary: BOOK 5/7: The horrors of their fourth year were the greatest yet faced by our band of heroes. None escaped unscathed, though some scars are more obvious than others. As the group try and put the pieces of a lost memory back together, they find that the secrets held within it reveal not the past, but a future more terrifying than any of them imagined.
1. Prologue

_A/N: Welcome back all, to the fifth installment of my James S Potter series. I appreciate your patience regarding the delay in getting this posted, but I now have a few chapters up my sleeve, so expect a regular weekly update schedule from here on out. _

_If you're reading this and confused, then I suggest hitting up my author's page and starting the series from Book 1: James S Potter and the Heart of Hogwarts._

_For those of you who know why you're here, I'll not keep you any longer, save to say we will pick up the story with our heroes putting the pieces back together after the horrors of last year. But first, just **what** did they let loose down in the Ministry..._

* * *

'Are you _sure_ you want me to start this?'

'It's three p.m. isn't it master…?'

'Boggins, sir. Name's Boggins.'

'Isn't it, Master Boggins.'

'Well yea, it is… But what if someone's still down there?'

Grumweldius Arctavius Plank blinked once. Then he blinked again. 'But… _why?_' he said, slowly. 'Why would somebody be down there? An announcement was made. Notice was given. Ample time was afforded. Why would anybody not comply?'

Boggins was staring back at him, wide-eyed. He was making a sort of 'uhhhh' sound that was fast becoming irritating.

'Well, they might have got stuck, see. Or maybe they is trying to wrap up some work real quick. I dunno, something like that.'

'But… but they were _forewarned.'_

'I know's that, sir. But it's the Department of Mysteries, see. Any sorts of thing could go wrong. If you can imagine it, it's probably happening. That's what me Da always said.'

_Imagination?_ What was he talking about. 'You're not paid to think, Baggins, just seal it up.'

'It's Boggins, sir.'

'Whatever.' Ridiculous name, either way.

The steady, rhythmic _thwack, thwack_ of Boggins' charmed hammer nailing the boards across the doorway was music to Plank's ears, and he allowed himself a brief moment of reflection upon his selection for this particular task.

_Huh, a rhyme. How… frivolous._

The choosing was no doubt a highlight of his career. Temporary Chief Overseer of Permanent Department Closure.

The entire Ministry had been gossiping over what had taken place deep down in the Department of Mysteries. Revealing their true nature as little more than nattering schoolgirls, their days devoid of meaningful work and thus spent whiling away, chattering over bottomless cups of tea, and endless streams of pumpkin juice. Pah! What a ridiculous drink. Simple water was all any man needed, nothing more. Too much flavour would send a man loopy, now there was a fact Plank well knew.

And so the Minister for Magic – the Minster _himself_ – had called upon none other than Grumweldius Arctavius Plank to ensure this task was carried out. And he was told in no uncertain terms that he mustn't gossip about it. Nor was he to enquire as to the why behind it. A pointless warning, surely. What good would that do? Plank's task was to seal up all ingress and egress into the Department of Ministries, beyond means of access, mundane or magical. What good would it do him to know _why_ he was doing it? Did a hound ask _why_ when it was called to heel? No, and so Plank's queries had been entirely practical in nature. Which materials should he use, which workers would he oversee, where exactly _were_ all the entry points, again? He'd even congratulated himself on getting creative, and placing horizontal _and_ vertical boards across the doorways, for added security.

Baggins – _Boggins,_ sod him – was half-way through the horizontal variety when a sudden commotion preceded a wild-eyed wizard barrelling up the stair well that was being sealed, leaping through the partially-closed threshold and turning a frantic gaze on Plank. Frantic, yet also somehow accusatory, as if this man's predicament was somehow _Plank's_ fault.

'What are you doing, you mad man?' The wizard was short, a little on the portly side, and was going bald at the top of his steely grey hair.

'Why, sealing the entrance,' Plank responded, matter-of-factly.

'You could have locked me in!'

_Thwack, thwack, thwack. _Plank turned his gaze from the man to the doorway, which Boggins had nearly finished sealing.

'Why, yes. I suppose I could have.'

'What- why- how could you- you're_ insane_!'

Plank began feeling that he wasn't quite getting through to the rotund little man.

'Ample warning was giving. Time was allowed for evacuation. All employees were told. Frankly, it's a little irresponsible of you to leave it so late. I now find myself delayed.'

'Delayed? _Delayed?_ You- _you_ are upset? By Merlin, you cretin! If someone didn't disseminate the Recirculating Flux Aspecter then by the time that… the _thing _that's down there gets to it, it'd send us all up in flames.'

Plank just blinked. Boggins had stopped _thwack-thwacking. _The boards were up.

Mr. Portly – Plank refused to burden himself with knowledge of the man's actual name – threw up his hands in exasperation and stalked off, muttering all the while as if Plank had somehow done him a disservice. Plank just stared owlishly at his receding back before turning to set about layering the spells, charms, hexes and enchantments upon the door that would _truly_ prevent anybody gaining entrance. Or, as the Minster had pointedly stated, ensure that nothing could get _out. _

'No, no, no, you can't! Stop this instant!'

A tall, spindly witch with frazzled blond hair, thick-rimmed glasses and a flowing purple robe bounded around the corner from whence Portly had just disappeared and lunged at poor old Boggins, latching on desperately to the collar of his shirt.

'Open that door this instant!' she wailed, shaking Boggins bodily.

Plank's left eye twitched.

'This is above my pay grade, sir,' Boggins noted, mid-shake.

Plank sighed. 'Very well. Mam, we were instructed to seal all access and egress into the Department of Mysteries. This door marks the last on our list. Nowhere in our instructions were we told to re-open any portals at the behest of a wailing witch.'

'B- but you _must._ My little Mittens is down there!'

'Your mittens? I'm sure you could conjure another pair.'

'No, you dolt. My Mittens! My darling pet Kneazle. I've had her since she was a babe. She's a part of the family. She's- she's more human than you! You can't leave her down there, she'll starve. What a horrible fate, wasting away, day after day, slowly… confused, in agony… oh, _Mittens!'_

The woman descended into a sort of half-wail, half-howl and Plank, unsure what else he could do, gave the top of her head an awkward little pat.

'Don't touch me, you cretin! You're going to kill Mittens, you're a murderer! She'll die, eaten by that… that _thing_ that's down there. It will take her and destroy her and – _poof! – _just like that, she'll be gone.'

Plank furrowed his brow just slightly. 'Then you ought to at least be happy she won't need to starve.'

And with that, Plank turned around to face the barricaded door, leaving Boggins to handle the distressed witch, and channelling what was left of his focus into sealing off the Department of Mysteries – and thus keeping at bay the nightmare horrors that had been spawned within it – for good.


	2. When the Lights Go Out

'James, would you pass the gravy, please?'

James did as he was bidden, reaching across the dinner table to pass the little ceramic jug to his mother.

At the head of the table, Harry Potter coughed, just the once. Cutlery clinked and scraped against plates. Upon the mantle, the large clock tick-tocked audibly. Across the table, James met Al's eye. He was looking as if he'd just been gifted a brand-new Nimbus model broom. Lily was looking irritatingly smug to his left.

'So then, Odette,' Harry Potter eventually said in the direction of the roast lamb sitting in the centre of the table. 'James, er, tells me that you're quite the Quidditch player. And a Seeker, no less.'

'_Dad!'_ James hissed. He'd only told his father about a _hundred_ times. 'She's only, like, the best Seeker in Hogwarts _ever.'_

This made both Harry and Ginny raise their brows. The latter with a glass of red wine paused halfway to her mouth.

'Except for that one time I beat her to the Snitch,' Al chirped in, unhelpfully.

James aimed a wild kick at him under the table, missed, and smashed his toe on a chair leg. His eyes watered with the effort of not showing the pain.

'Gentlemen, please,' Odette purred in a sultry voice. 'I've enough boys fighting over me at school, let's not bring it home, now.'

Ginny, who had been midway through taking that sip of her wine, suddenly choked, and did well to stop herself spitting half of the glass down her front. She compensated for this by draining the rest of its contents in one go, and setting the glass down on the table rather harder than James thought strictly necessary.

'Why yes, that's right, Mister Potter,' Odette said with a glowing smile and a smoky look that made James' heart shiver, even though it wasn't directed at him.

'Please, call me Harry.'

'Whatever you want, Harry.' Odette leaned forward with a heavy-lidded gaze and lay a hand softly on Harry's arm.

This had the result of forcing Harry to take a hasty sip of his own wine. Ginny's grip on her fork suddenly became rather intense. From the corner of his eye, James could see Lily making fake gagging motions. He aimed another kick, missed yet again, and shoved his chair back quite aggressively.

'I'm going to check on dessert!' he yelled to the table at large.

Out in the kitchen, James gripped the edge of the bench with a white-knuckled hold. He filtered through the cupboards for a bottle of chilled butterbeer and popped the top with the butt of his wand. He drank until the fizz made his stomach bloat and his eyes water. The bottle was nearly empty. Though the summer eve had been hot and sticky, nothing had left him as uncomfortable as dinner-time conversation with both his family and his girlfriend.

'This is a disaster,' he groaned up at the ceiling.

'Isn't this _wonderful?'_ Odette laughed, bursting through the doors into the kitchen, an empty glass in her hand.

'This is _the most_ awkward thing in the history of my life. Possibly the most awkward thing _ever.'_

'Nonsense, James, darling! Everyone is having a blast.'

James groaned. 'I can't believe I let you talk me into this.'

Odette fluttered her eyelids and held a single had to breast in mock affront. '_Me?_ I seem to recall it was _you_ who couldn't agree fast enough when I told you what the reward would be…'

'Yea, well… can we just skip ahead to that part?'

'I _hardly_ think your parents would take kindly to my stripping naked on your dinner table.'

James threw up his hands in exasperation. 'You know what I mean.'

'Of course I do.' Odette's smile was coy. The golden light of the setting sun lanced in through the kitchen window to illuminate the dangling silver earrings that sparkled at her neck. 'But _you_ need to let me have my fun. Not to mention you could do with the lesson in etiquette. Your roguish indifference will only get you so far in life, my dear.'

'Let's hurry up and get this over with,' James muttered, taking Odette by the upper arm and steering her back to the kitchen.

'Ugh, you're such a _boy._ Can you honestly not think about something else for just one minute?'

'Think about what?' Ginny asked sharply, her gaze taking turns pinning first Odette, and then James, to the spot. It was the dangerous look she got when she knew she'd caught James out in something – like when he'd been smuggling toads into Lily's sock drawer.

But Odette – to her absolute credit – was not fazed in the slightest, and stepped forward to gracefully slide into her chair in stark contrast to James' sheepish slinking.

'Quidditch,' she said seamlessly. 'Sometimes, I wonder if he'd even remember who I was, if I didn't meet him across the pitch a couple times a year.'

James watched in shock as _the look_ melted off Ginny's visage like before the summer sun. 'Tell me about it,' she nattered. She was _nattering, _now. With Odette! 'If you get Harry and Ron in a room they'll be bouncing plays off one another until the cows come home. I swear, they wouldn't even notice if I fell asleep mid-conversation!'

'Hey, now,' Harry objected. 'That's hardly fair.'

'It took you three _hours_ last Wednesday to realise I'd dozed off while you and Ron debated whether Lazenby or Cottrell would make a better Beater for the Montrose Magpies.'

'It's Cottrell – Ron's blind to say otherwise. And besides, that's an utter lie. I noticed right away, darling. It's just that you make such a better listener when you're asleep.'

James inhaled a mouthful of water. Al started gagging on a baked potato. If the look Ginny had brandished at James earlier had been cool, this one – directed at Harry – was positively arctic.

'Can we not talk about Quidditch for just _one minute,'_ Lily chimed in, dragging everyone's attention towards her and promptly diffusing the situation. Harry was nodding vigorously in agreement.

'Very well,' said Ginny with a protracted indrawn breath. She folded her hands neatly in her lap and made a great show of bestowing a polite smile upon Odette. 'So tell us, Odette, how did you two meet?'

'Ah…' Odette's earrings shivered as she flicked her gaze over to James, and then back to Ginny, clearly uncomfortable.

'Playing Quidditch,' James finished, rather smugly.

Lily actually went so far as to bang her head on the table in despair.

Later that evening, once everyone had eaten far more than they needed, they sat around on the veranda out the back of the house, overlooking the Potters' back garden, which sloped away before them. Though the sun had set, and the only light afforded them was a series of shimmering globes hovering around their heads, James could still make out the tall dark shapes of the sentinel conifers at the bottom of the garden that had marked the bounds of his childhood quidditch pitch for years. They waved drunkenly in the soft breeze, fuzzy patches of inky blackness blotting out the stars above.

James held a small glass of Firewhiskey in one hand. The lingering heat from his last mouthful still coursed and pulsed deep in his stomach, ensuring that it would be a while before he took the next sip. The air was mild, if not outright warm, and he had rolled the sleeves of his shirt up, past the elbows. An actual shirt, this evening, after Odette had marched him up to his room to change when he'd greeted her at the door in a t-shirt and jeans. She'd been an instant hit in the Potter household from that moment on.

His other hand sat at his side, with his fingers laced through Odette's. They sat side by side on a bench seat. For the moment, in comfortable silence. Every so often, as they turned to talk to one family member or another, their proximity would cause their shoulders to brush together. Occasionally, and entirely unbidden, Odette would give his hand a subtle squeeze. And a rush of affection would well up in James' chest in response.

'So what do the rest of your friends think about this?' Harry asked with a casual wave towards James and Odette. 'Fifth year… blimey, I was lucky if I could share the same room as a girl for longer than a minute without getting all tongue-tied and flustered.'

Ginny rolled her eyes very pointedly.

'You must be the only one of your friends to be in a relationship?' Lily piped up. James had thought she'd gone to bed.

'A _serious_ relationship, at least,' Ginny added. James felt a little hot under the collar at the mention of _serious._ He pushed the thought – and attendant discomfort – from his mind.

'I don't think a girl exists who could spend more than a minute around Freddy without being driven insane,' he ventured. Harry and Ginny both gave knowing chuckles.

'What about the other one?' Lily asked. Her voice was oddly high and strained.

'Who, you mean Clip? He's _obsessed_ with Cassie, but I don' t think-'

'No, the Hufflepuff one.'

Something in her abrupt tone pulled James up short. All five of those gathered paused to give Lily identical questioning stares.

'What? I'm just _asking,'_ she said defensively.

'Keeping tabs on James' friends, are we?' Al goaded with a smirk, shuffling his chair forwards to get in Lily's face.

'_No! _I'm just- I should be keeping tabs on _you_, what with your _three_ Ravenclaw girlfriends.'

This time, it was Harry's turn to start choking on his drink.

'I think it might be time for us to leave,' Odette said smartly, standing up and pulling James to his feet by virtue of their conjoined hands.

James couldn't have agreed more.

There was a round of warm farewells, and promises to visit again soon. Ginny invited Odette around for dinner every week, making a point of saying James had never been so well-behaved at mealtimes. James retaliated in a most mature fashion by sticking out his tongue.

He'd agreed to accompany Odette home via Floo, and so they gathered around the fireplace together, now arm-in-arm.

'We'll see you _soon,_ James,' Ginny said, somehow managing to make it into a warning.

Before he had a chance to respond, Odette had tossed the powder into the hearth and cried out her address. In a flash of green and a sudden overwhelming smell of soot, the living-room disappeared around them.

James was keeping his eyes scrunched shut in a feeble attempt to ignore the familiar sensation of having his body squeezed through a straw. But, as the chaotic tumble and rush of warm wind assailed him, he caught a sense of something that felt sort of… _off._ A sudden breath of cold wind, bearing the scent of dust and ash and a sense of things long-forgotten. He snapped open his eyes, saw a smear of purple-black against the green…

And was spat out before he had a chance to realise what he'd seen.

They were ejected onto the lush carpet of a living room floor. Odette, naturally, made the act seem a thing of distilled grace. James staggered a step and dropped down to one knee before he could quell his momentum.

'Mother!' Odette cried warmly, darting forth and dropping James' hand to embrace a figure who appeared framed in the light of the kitchen doorway. The two hugged fiercely, and James hastily brushed the worst of the soot off of his shirt while he awkwardly awaited his introduction.

'Hello my little swan,' Odette's mother crooned, kissing her daughter on both cheeks and then her brow before breaking off the embrace.

'Mother, this is James,' Odette said, a little more demurely, gesturing for James to come forward. He hastened to acquiesce.

James could certainly see where Odette got it from. Her mother was tall, willowy, graceful, and – was he allowed to say it? – beautiful. In a serene, understated way of ready smiles, glowing eyes, and a welcoming, intangible warmth that filled the room. She had darker hair than Odette, although James had known Odette five years now and _still _wasn't sure of her natural hair colour. And where Odette wouldn't let herself be seen in public without a coating of lipstick and a thick dusting of eyeliner, her mother, in contrast stood starkly unadorned, and yet somehow all the more radiant for it.

James hurried to make her acquaintance, holding out his hand in formal – if a little awkward – greeting.

'Oh, none of that dear, we hug around these parts.' And James found himself wrapped up in a decadently floral embrace, cut through with undertones of some kind of spiced wine. Frankly, he was a little disappointed when it ended.

'It's lovely to meet you,' James managed to force out. Had the night suddenly become much hotter?

'Can I get you a drink, darlings?' Miss Mansfield offered, gesturing to a glass she was halfway through drinking. It was filled with a rich, reddish liquid.

'James has to hurry back home, mother,' Odette explained. 'I'm just going to show him the… view from my bedroom.'

Odette's mother favoured the pair of them with a very knowing smile that left James feeling as foolish as if he'd forgotten to wear trousers. He felt his ears burning, and was infinitely grateful for Odette latching onto his hand and tugging him up the stairs.

'I'll have a glass when we're finished, mother,' she called back. 'And perhaps a bath.'

The husky laughter that followed them up the staircase was positively scandalous.

Odette could contain herself no longer as she burst through a doorway on the landing. She collapsed on her bed in a fit of giggles like a little first-year who'd overdone it on Cheering Charms. 'Oh, the look on your face,' she gasped, struggling for breath.

'I thought your parents would be, you know… _out.'_

Odette straightened up and carefully wiped away a tear. 'It's just mum and me. She _was,_ but we stayed at yours much later than planned. Oh, and that reminds me-'

And without any further warning, Odette leaned over, grabbed a pillow from atop her bed and _thwacked_ James over the head with it.

'Ow! What was that for?'

'I saw you looking at my mother!'

'Shove off! I was just… just-'

'At least I know that you'll still think I'm good-looking in twenty years' time.'

'I-' James froze up. In twenty years' time? _Together?_ He'd never thought that far ahead.

Odette saw his hesitation before he could cover for himself. He saw the shadow of something like disappointment flicker across her face, and she turned toward the window, taking a step away from James as she did so.

'You can see the Ministry of Magic from here, look,' she gestured, changing the subject suddenly.

James scrambled to his feet and peered avidly out the window, eager to make amends for the hurt he'd just delivered.

'Which building is it?' he asked. The view was impressive – well over the tops of the nearby apartments, it afforded a twinkling vista of crowded cityscape in central London.

'That one just there, with the domed roof. The Muggles see it as a big old apartment building. They never wonder why they don't see people going in or out. I guess it's Charmed that way. I don't know what's really in it, only that it sits over the main part of the Ministry. There's loads of witches and wizards living in the apartment buildings all around here.'

And even as James was studying it, he saw the lights in the windows flicker out. Blackness enshrouded the building, followed shortly after by a sweeping wave that left many of the glinting windows across the neighbourhood suddenly blank. Without warning, the light in Odette's room flickered out, as well.

'Oh,' James remarked. 'Must be an eckel- electricity breakdown.'

'Can't be,' Odette breathed, suddenly very close. 'Look, the street lights are still working. All those houses – the ones without the lights on – they're the magical houses.'

And sure enough, even through the sudden gloom, James noted that Odette didn't have one of the glowing bulbs the Muggles favoured, nor were there any of the funny switches that littered their walls. It had been magic lighting the house.

James peered once more out the window. It seemed an even deeper shadow had settled across the Ministry building, one that set it apart even from the dull, yawning blacknesses that Odette said marked the wizarding homes all across the neighbourhood. James supressed a shudder. If he ever had to step foot in that building again, it would be too soon.

'Anyway,' Odette said, pulling him away from the window, and back to face her. 'For what we're about to do, we don't need lighting.'

And any thought or sense of dread that James might have felt upon looking at the inky façade of the Ministry building was swept away in the wild torrent of desire that overcame him. He dove toward Odette, without care for her delicately-woven hair, her precious necklaces or gaudy earrings. His eagerness spoke volumes of his affections, and Odette laughed musically as they tumbled and tussled among the sheets for a moment. Until, struck by a sudden thought, James pulled up, frozen.

'I can't do this,' he announced.

Odette studied him, perplexed. Her ornate braids had become dishevelled. Her dress hung down off one shoulder, revealing a shimmer of mint green lace. 'Whatever for?'

'Your mum…' he trailed off, and scrubbed at his lips, pulling the back of his hand away covered in a deep red smear. 'She's down there. She _knows.'_

'She doesn't _mind.'_

'But it's _weird._'

Odette gave an overly-dramatic sigh, flumping back onto her pillows and staring up at the ceiling. '_Fine._ If there truly is no persuading you...'

'Another time,' James offered. 'When she's not here. When she doesn't _know._ When she can't _hear.'_

'Think of the state you're to leave me in, James,' Odette chided. A blush of colour shone high on her cheeks. 'I shan't be able to sleep tonight, that's for sure. It's hardly a fitting state for a lady.'

'Well then, find a time for your mum to be out.'

Odette was fanning herself with a decorative pillow. 'I'll spirit her away for a night and a day, if that's what it takes. But, fair warning, we know each other far too well. She's going to guess that _something_ is up.'

James smiled, and barely hesitated before saying, 'That's the girl I know and love.'

It was worth all the awkwardness of the night so far, and plenty more, to boot, to see the look of unbridled shock skitter across Odette's face, before she could reign herself in.

He was further rewarded with a warm, genuine smile that made Odette's eyes glimmer and dance in the gloom of her darkened room as she whispered softly, 'Goodnight, James.'

With that, James hurried downstairs, bade a hasty farewell to Mrs. Mansfield, and bundled himself into the fireplace, checking his watch every couple of seconds to see just how late he was. His parents were going to _murder_ him.

And so, any thought of the mysterious magical outage around the Ministry was easily pushed from his mind, its potential significance faded into nothingness. James noted no further complications with travelling via Floo, no greasy smear of looming purple-black bruising marred the virulent green light that shepherded him all the way home and tossed him out on to a lounge room floor directly in front of both of his parents, standing with identical steely expressions and tightly folded arms. Ginny's foot was tapping rapidly upon the carpet.

Oh, dear.

'Before you say anything,' James hastened to head off what he was sure to be a severe dressing-down. 'I only took so long because I had to stay and speak with Odette's mother. It would have been rude to just leave again so soon…'

He trailed off a little lamely. In the shadowy corner of the living room, he could make out both Al and Lily, peering around the doorframe, unabashed glee writ all across their faces. He skewered them with his filthiest look for good measure.

'Is that so, James?' Harry asked. His lips were pressed into a thin, pale line. There was an odd glint in his eyes, obscured though they were behind his spectacles. James couldn't be sure if it was irate or merry.

'Y-yes, she offered me a glass of- of wine, I think.' The best lies, after all, were steeped in the truth.

There was a very pregnant pause, before Ginny finally sighed and spoke, 'And at which point during this polite glass of wine, did Mrs. Mansfield leave her bright red lipstick all over you?'

James' mouth fell open. He scrubbed at his lips again, he'd been sure he'd removed most of that.

'Nah-uh,' Harry uttered. And this time James was _adamant_ it was a twinkle of mirth in his eyes, as his father slowly raised his hand and pointed to his own neck.

James spun in horror to face the mirror mounted on the mantelpiece. He saw, clear as day, the bright, red, traitorous trail of Odette's lipstick running down his jawline, past his collarbone, and disappearing beneath his shirt. He was only glad his parents couldn't' see just how far down it went.

'Shit.'

And that was how James Potter saw himself grounded for the entire second half of the summer holidays.


	3. Ask the Right Questions

'So there will be no wandering off to meet friends, no stopping in at Fortescue's for ice cream, and no spending an hour browsing the goods in Quality Quidditch Supplies.'

'No fun is more like it,' James mumbled.

Ginny Potter threw one hand up in the air in exasperation. 'Exactly! Finally, it is sentient! You are _grounded,_ James Sirius Potter. And if your father hadn't relented and strongarmed me into bringing you today, you'd damned well be sitting at home right now, so you'd _best_ be happy you're even here.'

'Yea James just be glad you're here,' Lily goaded. If they hadn't been standing in the middle of a rather busy Diagon Alley at that moment, James would have reached over and boxed her ears. She always knew _just_ how to get under his skin.

'Lily, Albus, I don't have time to babysit today, so you're to keep your eyes on James. School shopping _only._ Nobody is to set foot in Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Understood?'

Al groaned, but Lily flicked her hair irritably. 'As _if_ I'd want to go into that madhouse, anyway.'

'Oh, you're so _mature _Lily,' James hissed.

'Grow up, James.'

'_Periculum!'_

Without warning, brilliant red sparks exploded all around the children's heads. They filled James' vision, momentarily blinding him. The explosion left his ears ringing and his hands clutching the sides of his head in vain.

'_Mum!'_ all three chorused, though none could hear their own voice.

'I've done my years of babysitting you three,' Ginny huffed. 'Start acting your age, not your wand size.'

And with that, she strode off and was soon lost in the crowd, leaving three rather sullen Potter children glaring balefully in her wake.

'Sod that,' James growled, crossing his arms. His ears were still ringing, but slowly, the dull roar of a teeming Diagon Alley began to reassert its dominance.

'_No,_ James,' Lilly snapped. She moved to plant herself firmly in James' path.

'I'm going to see Fred,' he said, making to push past her.

But in the effort of doing so, he felt her brush up against him. The barest hint of a pressure across his waistband, and when she spun away she held his wand, dangling delicately between her fingertips. Her black-painted nails glimmered in the midday sun.

'Give it back, Lil.' James deadpanned.

'Nah-_uh._ You're coming with us- hey, this wand looks different-'

'Give it _back!'_ James swiped at it. A little chill crept in to his stomach. He didn't even know how to begin explaining the wand's backstory. Nor did he want to.

'Did you charm it to try and look more _badass, _James? Oh, you're such a boy!'

'Give it here! You're such a… a little _Slytherin!'_

'And proud of it!' With a laugh, Lily twirled, her hair flying wild around her, and her pale green dress flaring, chosen as if to emphasise her house affinity. With a final waggle of her finger, she hefted James' wand and disappeared it down the front of her dress.

'Lily, give it- _gross!'_

She blinked innocently back at him. 'Well, where else do you think a lady stores her wand when wearing a dress?'

'It's the Slytherin,' James muttered, shaking his head. 'It's gotten to you. You're _all_ mental.'

'Now there's something we can agree on,' Al chimed in. He'd managed to slip off in the furore and grab himself an _ice cream._

'Hey!' Lily sulked, mock-hurt.

'What can I say,' Al shrugged. 'Any house capable of producing a girl willing to date James _must_ have something wrong with it.'

James gave Al one final shove before setting off up the street, angling towards the great golden doors of Gringotts. He was down to his last Galleon, and his list of school supplies for OWL year was _long._ Not to mention all the newest broomcare products he had his eye on.

The doors to Gringotts stood ajar. The dusting of gold leaf that adorned them shone with a burnished glow wherever it caught glimpse of the sun. The towering, marble edifice sparkled brilliant and white. Strong enough to make James shield his eyes as he gazed upon the many-storied façade. Cracks and damages from the last wizarding war had been healed with veins of gold, so that it seemed a map of shining rivers criss-crossed through the gleaming marble. A network of veins pumping gold into the heart of wealth of Wizarding Britain.

'Your wands. Now.'

The goblin who manned – _goblinned_? – the desk leered down at them. His long, knuckly fingers wrapped around the edge of the desk, and jagged, pointed nails tapped impatiently, despite the fact that they'd only just been asked.

'So rude,' Lily huffed, just loud enough to be heard. James' heart stuttered for a second as the goblin's eyes rose to study her flatly. But he said not a word, only jutting out one hand to receive first Al's wand, and then Lily and James. A small, lacy cloth was produced, and the goblin made a show of vigorously scrubbing both James and Lily's wands. The act only made her scowl deepen. James smirked in her direction, content that his point had been proved.

When the goblin got to James' wand, he paused, holding it out at arms' length (which admittedly isn't very far for a goblin), as if it were a thing diseased. He glared first at the wand, and then down at James, peering over the edge of his desk and wielding a sharp, beady eyes stare that rooted James to the spot.

'This is _your_ wand, Mister Potter?' There was a strong emphasis on the word. Lily and Al were shooting James confused looks.

'Well, I'd hardly be wandering around the place with another wizard's wand. That's… that would be a sacrilege.'

The goblin didn't react in the slightest to his false bravado. Only peered closer at James. A subtle sneer began to curl his lips, revealing to James a needle-like row of pointed teeth. They matched the fouled whites of the goblin's eyes in their faded-parchment colouring.

The moment hung between them for several breaths, stretched taught and fine as spider's silk. And then, the goblin relented, retreating back behind his desk and making a note with a long, black quill into his notebook.

Al and Lily's wand, the goblin kept for the duration of their visit – an enforcement brought about since the last Wizarding War that Harry, Ron and Hermione reluctantly claimed responsibility for. But to James, the goblin returned his wand.

'I'll not hold onto this for a moment longer. Keep it out of sight if you value your safety here. Away with the lot of you.'

They didn't need telling twice. The three children scurried off to join the line to be guided down to their family vault. Al and Lily shot him questioning looks, but he waved them away, making sure his wand was stowed safely in his waistband. At least he'd managed to get it back from Lily.

A modicum of revenge was exacted as they careened down through the myriad tunnels towards the family vault, and Lily began to progressively turn a shade of green fit to match her dress. Al and James had no such qualms, and Al nattered away constantly, in awe of the massive scale of the tunnels and caves that were periodically revealed to them as they hurtled through the darkness.

'Did you know these tunnels are some of the oldest known excavations in wizarding Britain? They're pre-Roman, pre-everything, and all man-made! Look – there's no way flint erodes like that.'

James barely caught a glimpse of a black, smoky smear among the finely bedded sandstones that whipped by on either side. A glowing lantern up ahead announced a swath of vaults – but not yet theirs. Lily just groaned her displeasure.

They past through the platform. James counted nearly a dozen vaults. The lantern light was little more than blurry golden streaks in his periphery. Beyond, a wide, yawning chasm opened up, and the cart continued, on rail supported wholly by magic, for there was nothing beneath them at all. They could as well have been flying. Lily made the mistake of cracking open her eyes, and ended up nearly vomiting on James' shoes.

'Amazing, isn't it!' Al was yelling. The rush of air was trying to tug the words from James' ears. 'Look at the scale of it all, there's no way Muggles could have done this. What you're looking at is evidence for some of the earliest settlers in Britain having been wizards!'

James supposed that _was_ rather interesting. In a very stuffy, bookish, Al kind of way. The cavern beneath them _was_ massive. It yawned dark and foreboding and – without any light to penetrate it – utterly bottomless. Perhaps Lily's unease wasn't _entirely_ unwarranted.

Their cart made a sudden lurch, and pitched downwards at an eye-watering angle, heading towards a narrow seam in the rock strata – a horizontal opening where some unit or other had weathered away. It was filled instead with what looked like row upon row of giant teeth – stalactites. The opening grinned menacingly at them as they hurtled towards it. Lily dropped all of her aloof Slytherin airs and started screaming.

The wall of stale air hit them like a physical thing as they zipped in through the narrow gap in the rocks. Alongside them, illuminated fitfully by the lantern attached to their cart, the rock formations loomed like gigantic, statuesque trees, and they darted in and out between the boles like some playful forest sprite, zigging and zagging around the great structures haphazardly. Occasionally, one wheel or another would lift clean off the track, and James felt his heart in his mouth more than once.

'They say these tunnels criss-cross the entirety of London!' Al called, as another cluster of lights zipped past, revealing yet more vaults squatting amongst this strange, forested world. 'The Muggles keep digging tunnels for their trains and intersecting them. The scale of them is mind-boggling!'

A thought rose, unbidden to James mind, and he allowed it to bubble forth, more a question than an actual statement. 'One of the Seven Secret entrances to the Ministry of Magic.'

Al frowned. 'The _what?'_

'Nothing. Something Cat said once. I think she mentioned one of them was an underground tunnel.'

'Maybe,' Al shrugged. 'Do you think the first wizards lived underground? It's said that in one of these caverns lies a gigantic lake of fresh water.'

Their cart left the forest of stalactites, and climbed briefly through a roughly circular tunnel. James felt them beginning to slow as they approached a platform high above, cut into a dark, midnight-hued rock.

'This is an odd subject to know so much about,' James said, a touch dismissively.

Al shrugged as the cart came to a halt outside their family vault. 'Magical history intrigues me. It's the greatest mystery of our kind. There are records going back hundreds of years, and then, suddenly, nothing. Not a trace.'

'Maybe that was the day that Wizards learned to write,' James shrugged, stepping out of the cart and on to the flat, unadorned platform.

'That can't be the case. Oral histories-'

Mercifully, Al was cut short, as Lily shoved past him and vomited all over the platform – narrowly avoiding both James and their goblin escort with the violent splashback. She rolled onto her back atop a clear section of stonework and James looked down at her pale, drawn features. He found not a drop of sympathy within himself, as her pleasure at his predicament still stung fierce in his memory.

'Clean this,' the goblin barked, dropping a greasy, oily rag next to Lily without another word, and turned to face the door to the vault. James and Al stepped clear of the mess, hoping Lily's grumbles of 'manners' and 'ugly midget' didn't get them all thrown out.

Thankfully, there was much less kerfuffle involved with actually extracting the money, and James and Al were both wise enough to stand well clear when Lily bundled herself out of the cart at the end of the return journey. At least this time she managed to find a small, unused pail to fill with her displeasure.

It was little surprise that James found Lily much more bearable after the incident at Gringotts, and even managed to enjoy the time spent with his siblings – something he realised was a rarity these days. Al's fiercely inquisitive mind was a wonder, and held all kinds of facts and knowledge – some of it actually useful. James had no hesitation in abusing this upon discovering that Al knew all about the secret passages and false doors of Hogwarts' more secluded levels.

Al and James, in turn, made a game of trying to crack the frosty, Slytherin façade that Lily had adopted ever since she had started Hogwarts. It was like she had some kind of ideal of what the perfect, most Slytherin lady ought to be in her mind; some kind of sneering ice-queen. A frankly ridiculous notion, as far as James was concerned. The only two Slytherin girls he truly knew were anything but.

It was James, eventually, who emerged the victor, getting Lily to jump like an eager child to reach a bar of chocolate he held aloft just out of her reach. Though it was hardly fair sport – Lily would do just about anything for chocolate.

By the time the day had begun to wind down, and they were on their final stop – Flourish and Blott's to purchase a King's ransom in textbooks – James realised that the day had been one of the best of his holidays so far. Which made what he had planned to do sit a little uncomfortably with him. Far easier, had the pair teased and goaded him all day, then his betrayal would have been a thing easily done.

The bell affixed to the shop door tinkled lightly at their entry. The low light in the store forced all three of them to strain their eyes to see. A few spectral figures ghosted in and out between the aisles up ahead, though this late in the day had most shoppers headed home for dinner. The maze-like configuration of shelves towered above them, as they slowly wended their way through the store, blotting out what meagre light the sputtering candles and lamps provided and casting looming shadows across their passage.

'How is anyone meant to read in a bookshop that's so dark?' Lily hissed, clutching James' shirt with one hand so as not to get separated. He'd have to change that.

'Al, I'd heard they have a new history section on the upper level,' James whispered. The nearness and the stillness precluded proper speech. The book store was just one of those places where it felt _wrong_ to speak too loud.

No sooner had James mentioned it, than Al was off, leaving just the two of them behind. James paused in a little clearing – he could think of no other word for it – and turned to Lily.

'I'm going to go and read some Quidditch magazines before we do all the boring shopping. I hear the Tutshill Tornadoes have issued a new player strip for this season. And the Magpies signed a new broom sponsorship deal, and-'

'_Yawn._ I'm going to the politics section. Meet you back here in ten?'

_Such_ a wannabe Slytherin. 'Make it fifteen.'

Lily nodded, and James slipped away, ostensibly in search of his Quidditch mags, but he wasted no time in doubling back around and slipping out the door and into the street.

'Get out-Slytherined, Lily,' he chuckled, out in the sunlight once more.

James turned to face back down the street. Away from the riot of colour and cavalcade of noise that was only now beginning to peter out as the day drew to a close. He kept his head down and his collar up, fearful that he might run into his mother as she went about her own errands, and so ruin his carefully laid-out plan.

He made a beeline towards Ollivander's. Though Garrick Ollivander himself had long since passed, the store and tradition was still carried on in his name by some distant cousin or nephew. It was where James had got his wand – his _first_ wand, anyway – before he started Hogwarts.

A thin veneer of greasy dust coated all the windows – and had done for as long as James remembered the place. He pushed against the door and heard a chime sound somewhere deep in the shop. The lighting inside was woeful, and he had to blink several times before he could make out more than the general shape of the broad, battered desk and the man who stood behind it.

'Well?' he barked, causing James to start. He made his way tentatively across the floor, stubbing his toe on a wonky floorboard and resolving to put out a hand to steady himself like a blind man as he went.

'I've a question about a- about _my_ wand,' James said, suddenly uncertain. The idea had seemed sound when he'd thought of it, laying in his bed, bored out of his mind grounded. But suddenly, in the leering face of this grizzled old man of indeterminate age, he was having second thoughts.

'No refunds,' the man barked. 'If you can't get the wand to function, that is your failure. I am never wrong.'

James knew Harry and Ron called him Young Ollivander. Perhaps Young was really his first name, as there was nothing truly youthful about his liver-spotted, wispy-haired appearance that James could make out.

'I- it's not a refund I'm after. I was wondering if you could just have a brief look at my wand.'

'Is it one of mine? If not, you're wasting both our time.'

_Hmm. _How to answer that?

'Er-'

'What's your name, boy?'

'Potter – James Potter. I bought my wand from you five years ago.'

Technically not a lie, it just wasn't _this _wand, he'd purchased.

Young Ollivander gave a grunt, and disappeared down behind his desk for a moment, returning with a massive tome that looked to weigh as much at least as James did. He set it down upon the desk with a foreboding _whump,_ kicking up a cloud of dust significant enough to set James to hacking and coughing.

'Don't get your diseases all over my shop, boy,' Ollivander growled. Then, to himself, 'Potter… Potter, where are you. How in the hell Garrick could recall all of this waffle I'll never know…'

He eventually found it, and gave a triumphant little whoop, before rounding on James once more.

'Maple and Dragon Heart, ten-and-a-half inches, reasonably pliant.'

'That was it,' James agreed.

'Was? What do you mean, _was?_ Changed your wand have you, boy? Transfigured it to something else? That's impossible, you know, Transfiguring wands. And only a short step to madness, if my research is anything to go by.'

'Er, well… you see-'

'Give it here. I've not got all day.'

James proffered his ash and bone wand tentatively, painfully aware of his lie, but holding it out point-first for Young Ollivander to take. A gnarled, and bony hand leaped forth from the folded sleeves of his long, black robe and swiped James wand. He held it for only a moment before letting out a shout, and dropping it, as if stung. The clattering of wood across the tabletop echoed overly loud in the empty, dingy space.

'Is this some kind of a sick joke? What is that… that _thing?_ Get out, boy. Out!'

James reached forward to grab his wand, backpedalling as fast as he could in the dimly-lit space. His mouth was working frantically, stammering out meaningless half-sentences and frightened gibberish.

'What is- how did- what's wrong with it?'

'You just hand me the dead ghost of every wand ever created and you ask me what's bloody _wrong with it?_ Boy, get out of my sight, and consider yourself lucky I don't Hex you from here till bloody Hogwarts. Out, I say, get! And don't ever return!'

James stumbled from the room as Young Ollivander gesticulated wildly with one arm, whilst the other clawed at his head as if he'd become suddenly afflicted with a debilitating migraine. The bell tinkled, James burst through the door, and a wash of sunlight assaulted him as he blinked and staggered his way up the street, putting as much distance between himself and Ollivander's as he dared. Even as he threw a glance back over his shoulder, he saw the shutters snap down and the lights flick off, sealing the place up.

The ash and bone wand was cool and implacable in James' hand. It gave no hint or recognition of the disturbance it had created. Determined to get his answer, James gritted his teeth and made his way purposefully up the street towards Strange's Things, in an attempt to get a second opinion.

When Garrick Ollivander had passed away, many had decried the wandsmithing trade as dead, and bemoaned the last true wandwright. But in the months that followed, dozens had sprouted up in Diagon Alley, each one eager to carve out their own little niche within the massive shadow that his legacy had cast. Many were fraudsters, some few more were genuine but incompetent, and one promising young woman was put out of business when a nasty explosion had obliterated her shop and killed three patrons within it. In the space of twelve months, their numbers had been reduced to two. And when Young Ollivander emerged from relative obscurity to claim the mantle of his forebear, that number was reduced again.

Claretta Strange was the sole other wandsmith in Diagon Alley. She was fiery, spirited and incorrigible. And her wands were much the same. She crafted from only Beech or Pear woods, and hand-picked everything that went into the magical cores of her wands. She had become renowned for being the first British witch to use Chimaera Spine as a core – previously deemed weak and sporadic.

But her wands were notoriously hard to master. She would suffer each student trying only a handful of her wands before she would banish them, deeming them unfit to be wielders. Those who were chosen, more often than not, were forced to return, sheepishly, to another Wandwright the following year and find something easier to bend to their will.

So it was with much trepidation that James entered the store, even going so far as to flinch at the chimes that tinkled above the door, even though this space was as open and well-lit as Ollivander's was gloomy and dreary. Just as timid, was he, when the Wandsmith herself, Mistress Strange, appeared at the doorway to the back of the shop shouting and cursing and gesticulating wildly with her own wand drawn.

'Out! Out of my shop, heathen! Don't you dare bring that taint in here, that foul, evil manifestation. I'll have you, boy!'

James ducked and bolted out the door. He hadn't even opened his mouth, let alone drawn his wand. But her response mirrored Ollivander's, if perhaps a little more visceral and instinctive. Both together only served to stoke the chill flames of James' fears.

There was one final stop he had to make. One that he had hoped to avoid. He checked his watch. He'd just barely manage it. He bolted from the flower-bedecked frontage of Mistress Strange's shop and tore off down Diagon Alley, to where the cobblestones became uneven underfoot, more shops were boarded up than peddling their wares, and a sharp right hand bend was pathetically guarded by a melted iron gate: Knockturn Alley.

There was, of course, one final option. The dark and festering underbelly to the Trinity of Wandsmiths that magical Britain had to offer. Seldom mentioned in the same breath as Ollivander or Strange, and never in polite company, the dingy store of one Royland Griffin was the final destination on James' short list.

Disgraced years ago, the story went. In the initial onrush of would-be Wandwrights following Ollivander's untimely end, few distinguished themselves as true masters of the craft. It was infamy, rather than fame that set Griffin apart from the rest. Crafter of wands said to possess minds of their own, and to look deep into the hearts of their wielders, he was a fast favourite among the edgier of would-be wielders. His popularity momentarily bloomed, until a few disgruntled customers started making noises that the wands weren't quite what they appeared to be.

They reported hearing voices, these new wielders. No, not voices, _a_ voice. Just the one, appearing in the minds of the dozens or so who had purchased a Griffin wand. Voices that grew louder with each passing day. Many of the victims, in their last days, were found to be saying the voice came from the wands themselves. Whatever they said, the wielders would not utter repetition, but it was enough to drive them to insanity. A wave of despicable atrocities followed, all committed at the hands of a Griffin wielder, before the Aurors – Harry and Ron foremost among them – clamped down on Griffin and outlawed all of his trade.

That he had resurfaced only a few months later was little surprise to many. Ostensibly as a purveyor of magical antiquities and curios of a more… dubious provenance, it was still whispered, more often than not, that one could still purchase a wand from Royland Griffin, if one knew the right things to say.

James had pieced all of this together over the summer, as his father and Ron reminisced on past victories together over a glass or three of Firewhiskey. It had been them that had given him the idea, initially. Though he had hoped it wouldn't come to this.

Knockturn Alley itself was a grim and foreboding place. The cobbles underfoot were weathered and uneven, and coated in a thin film of slimy filth that made footing all the more treacherous. Piles of trash and debris had gathered up against walls and in corners, and added a rotting, pungent odour that assaulted the senses. Weeds sprouted up, somehow finding life among the filth, clinging desperately to the thinnest veneer of soil, and vines clung desperately to shop fronts, offering the only splash of colour to this bleak and dreary world. Overhead, even the sun was held at bay, as the upper floors of the houses and shops leaned towards one another in some sort of drunken embrace, blocking out all but the thinnest sliver of blue.

James hugged himself as he tried to peer at the faded, peeled names painted above the doorways. The air was suddenly cool and dank. The breeze that stirred the hairs on his arms left him covered in gooseflesh. The scant few souls he did pass, he ignored fiercely, hoping that they would do the same. But none seemed eager to dally, and each had wrapped their own private business around themselves so tightly that there was no penetrating that barrier, either in or out.

Eventually, James found it. A dilapidated building no more or less ramshackle than any other on the street. It was notable only that it had once been whitewashed, when all others were painted black. Even that had faded now, though, and left it a faded, grainy grey, somehow even more nondescript and dreary. A low light barely managed to penetrate through the thick patina of grime coating the windows. James put his hand on the door and pushed. It wouldn't budge. He laid his shoulder against it and heaved, forcing it open in a sudden motion that left him staggering into the dark environs within.

Behind him, the door swung shut on hinges that were perfectly oiled, all of a sudden.

The store, as far as he could make out, was just a single room. The door through which he'd entered was the only way in or out. Each of the four walls supported floor to ceiling shelving, and these groaned under the weight of more obviously-magical paraphernalia than James had ever seen in one place in his life. There were paintings and sculptures and little figurines. There were knives and swords and a pair of matching muskets. There was something that looked like a metallic Catherine Wheel, the size of James' head. There was an upside-down pail that rattled occasionally, as if it held something monstrous underneath it. There was a balled-up bundle of rags that emitted a gentle, orange glow, as well as an overwhelming sense of dread whenever James looked in its direction. And then there were things he couldn't even begin to describe, whose function he certainly had no hope of fathoming. They crowded atop one another on the shelves, each vying for attention, each one seeking to be the most ominous, or promise the most pain.

'The hour is late, to be receiving such esteemed guests.'

James jumped clean out of his skin, as a man had suddenly _appeared_ at the giant table that dominated the centre of the room. He was _sure_ that he hadn't been there a moment ago. The desk behind which the figure stood was a massive thing of warped, faded grey wood. None of the legs matched, and James could see the splinters peeling off the surface even through the dim lighting, but it was cluttered with tools and items that spoke of a frequent use. A small pile of sticks, in various states of carving were stacked up closest to James – wand wood, he surmised, in the process of being formed. Proof, then, of the illegality of Griffin's operation.

Just what James was looking for.

'I've a question about my wand, that I thought you might answer.'

Griffin leered at James. That yellow-toothed smile sent shivers down his spine. His wispy, grey hair belonged on a much older man. Eyes that never stood still regarded James for the briefest of seconds, then skittered away, then back again a moment later, always moving, always flighty.

'You'll find no wands in 'ere,' Griffin said. Despite evidence to the contrary littering the table between them.

'Nobody else could help me,' James said. 'You're the only one that could know.'

Perhaps subtle flattery would get him what he wanted.

'Then, boy, you ought to have come to me first.'

Or perhaps not.

'I think you'll find this wand a little more interesting than most.'

'Boy, if I hadn't sensed just what you held in that lint-filled pocket of yours the moment you walked in my door you'd have been out on your arse by now, and we both know it. Bring it here.'

Yellowing fingers bedecked with black, rotted nails beckoned James closer. He took a tentative step, drawing his wand and holding it out for Griffin to take. Trepidation filled him, expecting a reaction similar to Ollivander.

But when Griffin took it in his disgusting little hands, there was no screaming, no accusations or wailing. Instead, a slow, simpering smile spread across his face as he caressed the wand, turning immediately away from James to cradle it close to his chest.

'Oh yes,' he was crooning. James wasn't even sure if he knew he was still there. 'How it whispers. Such sweet words. Blessed oblivion. Death hear me, I entreat you. It is I, your most loyal of servants…'

James took a step nearer the table, resting a hand gingerly on the surface. 'I was wondering if you could tell me-'

'_Silence!'_

And without warning, Griffin spun, raising James' wand high overhead for a moment and bringing it savagely down, point-first towards the table. Before James could even cry out and try stop him, the wand drove deep into the warped and buckled wood, as if it were a fine steel dagger, and razor sharp. It quivered a moment, buried more than half-way into the solid wood of the table. Griffin released his grip on it, a rapt, reverent expression making a mockery of his twisted features as he crowded over the wand in awe.

James made to reach out for it, but froze as a chill descended upon the room, and thin streamers of murky grey mist started rising from the floor, creeping up the bowed, mismatched table-legs to swirl softly around, centred on James' wand. Small drops of condensation had beaded on the dull grey surface. James watched as they gathered, swelled, and tumbled to soak the boards of the table.

Griffin kept some rare flowers in a grubby jar of water. Where the mist flowed over them, they wilted and died. His pile of sacred wand-wood curled and splintered and bowed as the mist rolled over it. Wherever it touched, it left a warped, flinching death in its wake.

'He is close,' Griffin whispered, avidly. 'Death stalks this room, waiting. Do you feel him?'

James turned, as if expecting to _see_ Death. He felt nothing of the wrongness that had assailed him last time they had met. He briefly wondered at Griffin's sensitivities. The glimmer of a crazed zealot that was burgeoning in his eye was too much for James to bear.

'I- I think I'd best be going now,' he stammered.

James reached out for his wand, but Griffin was a half-second quicker, snatching it from the table, and clutching it to his chest, leaving the ribbons of mist as ruined, tattered streamers floating on an unfelt breeze. They slowly dissipated, but the chill remained. James suddenly realised that he could see his breath. His throat grew dry as his own wand was levelled towards him.

'I think not,' Griffin crooned. The smile affixed to his face could be described in no other way than insane. 'Death's presence demands action. Demands… sacrifice. And this prize is too great a gift for unholy hands such as yours. Yes… I think, that is what he wants. It makes sense. This is why you have come to me, I see it now.'

'W-what are you talking about?' James stammered, taking an involuntary step backwards. He felt his back collide with the hard, unyielding shelves that lined the wall. Griffin advanced upon him, all the while keeping the wand trained upon James' chest. The last remnants of the mist were slowly fading to nothing behind him, slinking back through the floor into nothingness.

'This wand- if it is not Death's own, then it is one very much like it. It bears the remnants of every wand ever broke, the ghost of every bond between a wizard and his wand. Here, in my hands, I feel them all clamouring, crying out to be heard the loudest. The cacophony is a joyous agony. Every witch or wizard that has died, every wand that has obediently fallen alongside its master, written in ash and bone, held now in the hands of Death's truest disciple. You are unworthy of such greatness, boy. It is mine! It shall be mine! _Avada-'_

But he never even came close to finishing the spell. As the words leapt forth from his lips, the ragged remnants of smoky mist blossomed into a great, furling cloud, encapsulating Griffin whole. It became so dense that James could not even see his body, only the occasional flailing limb. It did not stop the soul-rending screams from leaking out, the desperate pleas, nor the thick, cloying sound of blood bubbling forth. Instinctively, James held out his hand, and his wand sprung forth obediently into it. He wasted no time in dashing from the room, leaving the all-consuming mists to finish their job in Death's name.

There was the briefest moment before he closed the door behind him, when he turned to take one last look upon the ill-fated shop, that the sense of _wrong_ assailed him, and the faintest of shimmers in the air caught his eye. But James lingered not, and sped forth from the store with all of the haste he could muster, not stopping until he was back in the safety of Diagon Alley, and not even caring to still his racing breath as he hustled to re-join his siblings. He didn't care if Ginny shouted at him all the way through to the start of the school year, even that would be better than another second alone in Knockturn Alley.

As he tucked his wand securely away in the waistband of his jeans, finally in the relative safety of Flourish and Blott's he heard a soft, susurrating whisper, emanating from nowhere, and yet seemingly from everywhere at once.

'_Finally… awakened…'_

* * *

_A/N: I don't like to linger overlong on pre-Hogwarts activities, so next chapter we'll be starting the school year. Let me know what you think._

_J_


	4. Picking up the Pieces

'Try not get into _too much_ trouble this year, James,' Ginny said, wrapping him in a fierce hug. There was a certain resignation in her voice, as if she knew she were asking the rain to not be _too_ wet today.

The Potters were gathered on Platform nine-and-three-quarters, with Harry and Ginny bidding the children farewell. All around them, the platform seethed with life and energy. Garishly-dressed witches and wizards in pitiable attempts at Muggle attire endlessly caught James' attention with their sequined purses and feathery cloaks. He looked down at his own t-shirt and trainers and wondered how they just couldn't seem to get it.

'I won't, Mum. I promise.'

'Didn't we have this _exact_ conversation at this time last year?'

'Well I didn't know Rain had been taking by Steelhearts, this time last year!'

Ginny just sighed, and planted a kiss on the top of James' head. He scrubbed the spot angrily, trying to get his signature windswept look back.

'Be safe this year, James,' Harry said firmly, clasping his hand, and laying another on James' shoulder. 'You remember how tense things were when we got you back last year… well the Ministry isn't going to like getting bested, even if they _say_ they'll play nice.'

'They can't touch me at Hogwarts, Dad. Not after last year.'

Harry nodded, but didn't respond to James' comment directly. 'Just stay safe. And look out for your friends, they are the most important thing, now.'

'Always, Dad.'

They parted with a stern nod, and James led Al and Lily on to the train with a final backward glance and a wave farewell to their parents.

The press to get on to the train was as vibrant and thronging as ever. Students cried out in glee to be reunited with friends, parents waved tear-streaked goodbyes to their sons and daughters. Still more folk dashed back and forth, having forgotten this spellbook or that cauldron. Or even, once, a wand. James made liberal use of his elbows to carve out a path through it all for the three of them and their trunks. He shrugged off the tumultuous atmosphere and didn't allow it to sweep him away, focusing only on his goal.

'Bloody hell,' he breathed, once safely in the confines of the carriage. It was markedly less busy in here. 'More of them every year. When will wizards ever stop breeding?'

'I'm more interested to know how long they can keep an exponentially growing population hidden,' Al mused. 'Rose and I generated some models based on what limited population information we had-'

'_Ugh!'_ James and Lily groaned together, in perfect unison. 'You're such a _Ravenclaw.'_

Al rolled his eyes, used to his siblings' interruptions. 'Has anyone seen Rose?'

'Knowing Aunt Hermione, she's probably been here, ready and waiting for a half-hour already,' Lily said, checking her watch.

'I'll go look for her up the front, then.' With that, Al trundled off, dragging his trunk in tow.

James dove in to the first available compartment he saw and, to his surprise, so did Lily.

'What are you doing here?'

Lily sat delicately on the edge of the seat opposite, smoothing the bright yellow fabric of her dress. It seemed a brand new one, that James had never seen before. But then, seldom was he ever found guilty of paying attention to the clothes Lily wore.

'Just waiting a little while… for my friends.'

James and Lily had shared a home for nearly fourteen years, now. He knew how to wind her up, he knew what to say to calm her down again. He knew she liked to sleep in till lunch time on the Weekends. Merlin, but he even knew what times she used the bathroom most days. He also knew – despite her newly adopted Slytherin-ness – when she was lying.

And she was certainly lying.

James' Gryffindor mind was not entirely equipped with just what to do with this information. He wished Holly were here – no. Odette. He wished _Odette _were here. Why had he even thought of Holly?

'Is everything… all right?' he asked tentatively. If she was scared of getting bullied, well, _that_ was something James could help with. He couldn't _technically_ lose house points for duelling on the train if the school year hadn't started yet. Could he?

'Fine, thank you.' Lily's reply was shrill and sharp. He saw a flicker of annoyance dart across her face. There and gone like a little starling.

So. He knew she was lying. Now she knew that he knew she was lying. And he knew _that_, as well. James suddenly grabbed at his head. This was too much for his Gryffindor brain to follow.

'So, er, what electives are you taking this year?'

All around them, students were trickling on to the train. Somewhere out on the platform, a bell tolled – five minutes until departure. A wave of titters and cries rose to answer it as the last, frantic efforts were put into the farewell process.

'Divination and Arithmancy,' Lily answered shortly.

Well, then. Silence it was.

They waited thus for a few minutes more, until, blessedly, the door slid open to their compartment and James could physically feel the awkwardness slide out through it.

'Cat!' he cried leaping to his feet – partly in relief – and bounding over to give her a hug.

James was taken aback as she lifted him effortlessly off his feet in the embrace. She was still a good hand taller than he was.

'I've missed you!' Cat cried with glee. 'You didn't respond to a _single_ owl!'

'Sorry,' James mumbled sheepishly. 'Grounded. Hey, what happened to your… to you?'

Cat stepped back and looked down at her dress – a sparkling silver number dotted all over with what James suspected were real, live flowers – it was marred by several thick smears of sooty black criss-crossing her body. Her hair – which she kept short of her shoulders ever since James hexed it off last year – was well past artful disarray and into the territory of having just been hit with an Electrifying Jinx.

'Oh, I was helping the conductor of the train,' she explained brightly. 'I shovelled coal for him.'

'Couldn't he do that, you know, with _magic?'_ Lily asked.

Cat very nearly tackled her with another hug by way of response. Cat had been a hugger as long as James had known her.

'By Morgana, Kattala, what I wouldn't give for your… everything,' Lily said, standing with hands on hips and surveying Cat with an odd, appraising eye.

Cat giggled. 'Well you can't have _everything._ But you can have a flower, if you like.'

And she plucked one off her dress, offering it to Lily, who graciously accepted, placing it carefully in her hair.

'Pansy?' Cat turned to James, proffering a small, purple flower.

'Oh, er, no thanks Cat. It would, erm… clash with my shirt.'

Cat just shrugged, and popped the flower whole into her mouth, then plopped down opposite James, leaving a grey sooty smear on the seat as she did so.

Tristan was the second to arrive, just as the whistle was blowing and the train about to depart. But this time, both James and Cat were beaten to their greetings by Lily, who shot bolt upright from her seat and darted to open the door of the compartment for him.

'Hello Tristan,' she said, in a voice that didn't sound _at all_ like the Lily James knew. He watched as she moved to tuck a flyaway lock of hair behind her ear.

Tristan's eyes darted immediately to James. He looked mighty uncomfortable all of a sudden. 'Er, hi, Lily. How are you.'

Lily giggled, as if Tristan had just told the most hilarious joke. 'I'm really great, actually. How are you?'

She placed one hand on the side of the compartment door, now physically blocking Tristan from entering. His uncomfortable looks were beginning to take on a pleading edge.

'Good thanks, and you?' he practically whimpered.

'Er… I-'

James seized on the awkward hesitation and barged Lily out of the way, shaking Tristan's hand and finally allowing him in to their compartment. The look of relief he received was overwhelming.

'Alright, mate?' James asked, struggling to lift Tristan's heavy trunk from one end.

'It's a bloody zoo out there,' Tristan said, shaking his head. Lily seemed to think this was hilarious. 'Where do we keep finding all of these wizards?'

'Beats me,' James grunted from where he was _still_ struggling.

Cat leaned forwards and grabbed both ends of Tristan's trunk and lifted it effortlessly up into the racks above their head. The entire group paused for a moment, and James and Tristan shared an incredulous look.

'Well- it was just- I couldn't get a good grip on it,' James stammered.

'There are literal _bricks_ in there,' Tristan said, shaking his head in awe at Cat. 'How did you-'

'Oh, well, it wasn't just today that I was shovelling coal for the train conductor. I've been doing it all summer on all of the magical train lines. Mummy said I ought to get a summer job. You should see the places I've been! And the people I can arm-wrestle!'

The conversation promptly devolved into flip-flopping between a series of bizarre anecdotes from Cat on her travels over summer, and Tristan trying to compare to see who had the stronger arms. When he finally did suggest an arm wrestle, Lily gave an audible huff and stood to leave.

'Well, I'll be going,' she said loudly, not really directed at anyone. 'Bye, Tristan.'

He froze for a moment, and Cat _thumped_ his hand down onto the seat in victory. 'B-bye Lily.'

'Bye, Lily,' James added.

'Whatever, loser.'

And with a final, sullen look in Cat's direction, Lily stalked off, closing the compartment door much more firmly than was strictly necessary. James shook his head in disbelief. She was mental. Tristan wasn't quite meeting his eye. He needed to have words with Odette.

The train slowly gathered speed as the trio laughed and joked their way out of the greater London area. Buildings and roadways soon gave way to rolling green hills and hedged fields as they sped north. Not long after they passed over the glistening surface of a large lake, Fred and Clip joined them, trailed by a rather irate-looking Cassie.

'No, Fred, you _cannot_ let a weasel loose in a carriage full of first-years,' she was angrily explaining.

'All I'm saying,' Fred countered patiently, 'Is that it's not _technically_ against the school rules.'

'Just because it's not _explicitly_ written in the rulebook doesn't mean it isn't against the rules! The Hogwarts rules were drafted by respected, _sane_ individuals. It's no fault of their own that they couldn't _possibly _account for every _possible_ iteration of insanity that you conjure up in that wool-stuffed cavern you call a brain Fred Weasley!'

'It's great to see you guys!' James shouted, before Fred had the chance to _actually_ produced a weasel from his bag.

'Tell her, mate,' Fred grinned by way of introduction. 'Tell her I'm in the right.'

James planted his hands on hips and did his best to look admonishing. 'Honestly, mate, get with it. Letting a weasel loose on some first years? Seriously?'

Fred's smile faltered. Cassie beamed. 'James, it's so wonderful to see you've matured-'

'Everyone knows that a ferret is the way to go. They're much more lively, and will give a far better scare.'

James pulled Cassie into a one-armed hug as she gave a defeated groan that sounded as if her very soul was billowing out of her deflated body. 'I hate you all so much,' she mumbled into James' chest, and the whole group laughed together, sitting back in their seats and resuming the easy, comfortable familiarity that only friends who had been through as much as they had could share. As if they'd been apart a matter of hours, rather than the weeks that had separated them over the summer holidays.

Because the strength of spirit of the young holds a certain indomitability to it. Fuelled by bravado and ego and the very real belief that they are invincible. And so they slipped, slowly but surely, from the grips of the horrors of the year past. The small amount of worry each had been harbouring – scared that they wouldn't be reacting properly, that they had healed too soon, or not enough – slipped away beneath easy conversation, free laughs, and the comparably paltry burden of upcoming school life.

It wasn't until the conversation slipped and fell, to land on the topic of the obvious absence to their group, that a hint of sobriety descended, and a whole copse of pine and fir flashed past the window without a word being spoken.

'How do you think Rain is doing?' Cassie asked in to a lull of conversation. The lull soon became an empty gulf.

'I… don't know,' James offered honestly. 'I've been grounded all summer, I haven't been able to write to anyone.'

'Which explains why you never responded about my brilliant plan to turn all the Hogwarts portraits inside-out,' Fred jibed. As usual, he offered levity as a ladder back from the brink they all were circling. For once, nobody took it. The silenced stretched once more.

'Renshaw will look after her though, won't she?' Clip asked, his voice thick with concern.

'Doesn't strike me as the motherly type,' Tristan answered. 'But she does owe us one…'

James smiled, but it lacked any mirth. 'As if Renshaw has ever done anything for someone other than herself. She's a better option than the Ministry running Hogwarts, and she's been good to us, in her own weird way, but that'll only continue so long as we are aligned with her. So long as we're doing what she wants us to do. Remember second year…'

There was a round of grim nods, and they all as one seemed to settle back in their seats and turn their gazes inwards for a moment. James had been afforded rather a lot of thinking time over the holidays, and this was the conclusion that he had come to. He knew they hadn't made a mistake in rescuing Renshaw. The Glorious Sacrifice and Calantha Merriweather had made him painfully aware of that. He knew there was more to the story between her and Valerie Dufour that she wasn't telling, and he'd never find out just what that was with her locked away. And he had a sense, a feeling that was born deep in the pit of his stomach that that story would be critical in what was to come.

And so, he knew he'd made the right decision. But he vowed to be cautious nonetheless. There was nothing he could have done to prevent Renshaw's stewardship of Rain over the summer holidays. A time that would be so critical in a lost young girl stripped of her life's memories. But he was under no illusions that they'd done anything but loose a fox, in rescuing Renshaw. And they were merely the chickens before her. Safe, only so long as she didn't choose to snap her jaws in their direction.

James pricked his ears up and dragged himself out of his reverie at the sounds of an animated conversation taking over their carriage.

'…frankly ridiculous,' Cassie was saying. 'To think that little blonde strumpet would _ever_ be fit for such a role is ludicrous in the extreme. Honestly, a _toad_ would be more suited to the job. And easier on the eyes, to boot.'

James shot a confused look over at Fred, hoping to get caught up.

'So, did anybody _actually_ get made prefect, then?' Fred asked.

James' eyebrows shot up. He'd completely forgot that this was the year the school chose prefects. He'd spent all his time fuming about being grounded and brooding over what to do about Rain and Renshaw. A pang of disappointment suddenly hit him – this was also the first real year he had a shot at Gryffindor Quidditch team captain, now that Carina Swift had departed. He and Lynch were two of the most senior on the team, and the only ones who had been in it since first-year.

He pushed the thought aside as Tristan raise an uncomfortable hand, and they all looked at him incredulously.

'I thought most of Hufflepuff house hated you,' James asked.

'Trust me mate, I'm as baffled as you are. One minute they're threatening to ostracize me, the next they're putting me forward as prefect. Bit of a weird one for someone who is supposedly the "worst Hufflepuff ever".'

They all congratulated him, even Cassie managed to not look too sullen. They then spent a good deal of the journey speculating on who else had been made prefects. They fuelled the conversation with a good helping of sweets and pastries from the trolley, and Cassie even went so far as to break out a roll of parchment and draw up a table for sweeps. James guessed Emry Sameer from Gryffindor – a rival to Cassie in terms of intelligence, not to mention being involved in almost every club Hogwarts had to offer. He picked Bianca Petit alongside him, purely because – and he meant no offense to Cat – she was the least insane of the Gryffindor girls in their year.

There was another round of laughter at that, and Cassie gathered their money – two Sickles each – to put in a pot for the winner. They made sure to keep it circumspect, as they didn't want the Lenders getting wind of what they were up to. Fred offered to look after the kitty, but they all agreed that Cassie was the closest thing the group possessed to a responsible adult, and that she ought to be the one to do it.

It was not long after this, just as they were considering changing into their Hogwarts robes, that the group received a knock on the door of their carriage. A burly seventh-year student blocked the doorway. He had cropped blonde hair and was almost as wide as he was tall. He was wearing the yellow-and-black tie that marked him as a Hufflepuff, and a shining silver badge denoting his rank as prefect.

'Macmillan, you're with me,' he said, gesturing roughly at Tristan. 'We're going to have a little talk before the prefects meet up the front of the train. Gonna chat about _expectations.'_

Tristan groaned. Fred gave him a conciliatory pat on the back and a whispered word of support as he left. The moment the door was shut, Fred slammed down the shutters on the window and covered his ears.

A deep, dull _whump_ sound shuddered the windows in their panes. James stood up to roll back the shutters, but Fred grabbed his wrist sharply.

'Wouldn't do that if I were you. Not if you want to see anything for the next fifteen minutes.'

'But poor Tristan!' Cassie gasped.

'What do you think I was whispering in his ear?' Fred retorted. 'Sweet nothings? I told him what to do. That Hufflepuff bruiser, on the other hand, looked like a dolt. Figured I'd give him a welcoming gift.'

It was a gesture that was almost certainly going to create more trouble for Tristan than it was worth, but for now, none of them complained. Hogwarts was still a few hours away yet, and as such, consequences to their actions could wait, and give way for one last chance to relax before the school year set upon them.

Sadly, it was over only too soon, and with a harsh screeching of brakes that James was _sure_ someone ought to fix with a Muffling Charm, the Hogwarts Express pulled into the platform at Hogsmeade station.

The press to exit was almost as bad as it had been to get on the train in London. James led the way, with plenty of elbow and shoulder work to clear a path for the group. Out on the platform, the night was a still, clear one, and held plenty of late-summer warmth. A hint of dusky purple blushed the sky low to the west, but all light was provided by the lamps hung at regular intervals down the platform. They allowed themselves to get caught up in the tide of students as the mass of bodies flowed up the path towards where the carriages would take them to the castle proper, only just visible over the tops of the trees that fringed the Forbidden Forest.

'Firs' years, this way! Firs' years, follow me!' Hagrid great, booming voice had no trouble rolling over the chatter of a thousand anxious students. James spied his great bushy beard, now flecked with a healthy strain of grey, over the heads of the crowd, and flashed him a wave. He received a warm smile and a wink in response.

'Do you think we'll see the Thestrals, this year?' Cassie suddenly asked at James shoulder. He looked down to see worry and trepidation marring her features. She was biting heavily on her lower lip. 'I saw- in the Ministry-'

James lay a hand on her shoulder reassuringly. 'Whatever we saw, we saw it together. So we can face this together, too.'

A weak smile was her only response.

But James himself was to be made a liar no more than a few moments later, when he heard a voice calling his name through the crowd. The hordes had thinned a little, as many waited on the platform for friends and house-mates, leaving more of a steady trickle flowing up the path to the small clearing ahead that bustled with carriages and the snorting and stamping of Thestrals' hooves.

'James Potter! Mister Potter, over here, if you would.'

He gave his friends a shrug, and made hastily towards the source of the voice. It was one he recognised, and not one he ought to keep waiting, for it belonged to Galatea Renshaw, the Headmistress of Hogwarts.

'Good evening, headmistress,' James offered as he stepped clear of the flow of students. She was standing beneath the shadow of a great oak tree, which had grown warped and tilting over the years, such that it appeared to have a permanent drunken lean. Though she stood only a few yards off of the main path, the concealment of the drooping leaves was such that none who passed noticed her – certainly, James had not before she called to him.

'Yes, hello James. I haven't the time for pleasantries. I've a task for you.'

So soon? The year had barely begun. Subconsciously, James fingered the ash and bone wand he kept buried in his pocket. He noted Renshaw's eyes dart towards his hand. She barked a laugh.

'Hah. Nothing so… overt as that. As you'll know, Miss Rain has spent the entirety of the summer holidays in my care. Tonight will be the first time she is present in such a crowd, since… since her return. I would that you speak to her first. Better that she begin the night with a familiar face before becoming surrounded by so many that are alien.'

'Familiar, headmistress?' James couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.

'Do not think I have allowed her to forget those closest to her. If she does not remember you from her… past life, she will at least recall you as the one who stood foremost at her bed when she reawakened. My decision is final, James. Follow me.'

Suddenly nervous, James fell in step behind his headmistress.

'Headmistress, what should I… what should we talk about?'

Renshaw paused a moment, outside a singular carriage, pulled by a sleek, black Thestral that James could very much see, as plain as a regular horse.

'She's a fifteen-year-old girl. I was given to understand that fifteen-year-old boys spend a good portion of their time longing for opportunities such as this. I'm sure you'll think of something.'

And with a flick of her wrist, the door to the carriage came open. There was a rush of cool air at James' back, and when he turned, Headmistress Renshaw was gone. With only a slight hesitation, he made his way forward and up, into the carriage that awaited.

And there she was. Seated upon the bench opposite, with her hands folded demurely in her lap, those sea-green eyes studying him quizzically. She was painfully, chest-achingly the same. But at the same time, a difference had overcome her that perhaps none other but her closest friends would notice.

The fire that had smouldered behind her eyes was gone. Eyes that James could meet easily now – the sole discomfort was his own, in his uncertainty of how to address her. But where before there had been a lambent glow, there was now a dulled, muted sort of curiosity. Her hair had been cut short – her decision or Renshaw's? It was much shorter that James ever remembered it – well off of her shoulders. It afforded him a glimpse of the golden chain that hung around her neck – her Locket. That, at least, remained.

But more even than the hair of the eyes, there was something else different, something missing. Before, she had sat even the most rickety of stools as if it were a throne. Perfect posture and regal regard lending to the illusion of a princess in a young girl's body. Now, though the posture and poise remained, she faced the world as more of a caged animal. Wary, cautious, confused and uncertain about everything. Lost. It was, perhaps, the saddest change of all.

'Were you planning on saying something, James, or are you content to engage in a staring competition the whole way up to the castle?'

'You remember me?!' So elated was he, that he threw himself across the intervening space to wrap Rain up in a hug.

Unfortunately, he did so just as the cart lurched into motion, adding a burst of momentum to his lunge. He ended up sort of headbutting her in the chin, while receiving a knee in his ribs that left him gasping for breath as he fumbled his way back to his own seat looking incredibly sheepish.

'Sorry,' he said. But Rain didn't immediately respond. She was sticking out her tongue and becoming more and more cross-eyed as she tilted her head from side to side.

'Ib it beeding?' she asked.

James couldn't help it. He sat there, staring with his mouth agape.

Rain saw his expression and _clicked_ her jaw closed. 'I'm sorry,' she stammered, suddenly blushing. 'Was that not… normal?'

'It's perfectly acceptable after somebody smacks you in the mouth,' James laughed. 'It's just that it was the most un-Rain-like thing I've ever seen you do.'

She looked suddenly sad at that, and fell into a heavy silence. Her eyes were fixed on the floor between their feet, and she took to picking awkwardly at the sleeve of her robe. James cursed himself as a fool for not thinking before he spoke.

'It's just that I don't know who Rain is anymore,' she said to James' knees.

James leaned forwards and took both of her hands in his own. They had re-joined the main road up to the castle, and the lanterns hung betwixt the branches of the towering pines illuminated a single glistening tear on Rain's cheek. 'She is whoever you want her to be,' he said softly, and was rewarded with a small, shy smile from between the curtain of hair that fell over her face.

'Now tell me,' James continued, sitting back in his seat. 'You remembered my name, do you remember all of the others, as well?'

By way of response, Rain fished around in a pocket lining the interior of her robes. She produced a small photograph which she handed to him. She held it reverently, as if scared of losing it.

It was a picture of the two of them, taken in their first year, just after Rain's team had won a F.A.R.T club event. She was holding the trophy aloft, high above her head, and laughing as a first-year James tried to reach up and grab it. Eventually, photo-James gave up, and the pair of them fell into fits of giggles on the floor of the Great Hall.

'We must have been great friends, yes?' There was loss in her words. And confusion, at her inability to know just what it was she had lost. It was up to James alone to bear that burden, he knew.

He offered her his bravest smile. 'We _are_ great friends, Rain.'

She smiled softly at that, again. They passed much of the time by Rain showing James all of the photos she'd been given – one for each of their group, and one of them all together. This one had been taken in third year, and Holly – whom Rain had an individual photo of – wasn't in it.

'Some friends, they aren't forever,' James tried awkwardly to explain. 'They… drift apart. Or break apart.'

Holly's words at the end of last year still rang in James' ears. He refused to find it within himself to forgive her for trying to stop them bringing Rain back.

But Rain suddenly looked worried, and clutched the rest of her photos tightly to her chest. 'N-not forever? Will… will you-?'

'No, no, no!' James hastened to add, waving his hands desperately. 'Me, and all the others, we'll always be there. Friends are friends because they help one another. Friendship is about giving, about sharing, about sacrifice. You may not remember it, but these are things we've been doing for years.'

'Friendship is about… sacrifice?' Rain asked, genuine curiosity in her tone. James was hardly surprised Renshaw hadn't seen it necessary to fill her in on any of this.

'In part, yes. It's about doing things for other people, even though they may not be easy. You do it because you are friends.'

'Huh. Sacrifice…' Rain tested the word, as if getting the feel for it in her mouth. She smiled, apparently pleased with the notion, and tucked away all of the photos again, even Holly's.

They spoke only scarcely for the remainder of their journey, of school and lessons and lighter things. Rain had a lot of catching up to do, especially considering this was their OWL year. James told her of the dread that filled him at the thought of all the study they'd have to do, and speculated on just how insane the schedule that Cassie was bound to make for them all would be.

When they arrived in the courtyard adjacent the Great Hall, the door of the carriage swung open, and James hopped out, offering his hand to Rain to help her down. She took it graciously, and stepped down delicately to the pavement. Her eyes darted around furtively, taking in the sea of people arriving. She leaned heavily on him for support. Once again, James was reminded of her fragility. Where before she had been a veritable force of nature, this new Rain was a delicate spun glass flower. He was terrified of what might happen should she break.

From the corner of his eye, James caught a familiar face. Odette was watching on, staring intently as he stepped out of the carriage, alone, his hand in Rains. The moment he saw her, she spun away, her back straight and rigid, her chin thrust forward and deliberately not looking back in his direction. He sighed, heavily. _That_ was a conversation he'd been dreading all summer.

Before the pair moved off, Rain turned to James with a very serious look on her face.

'Thank you, James, for your sacrifice,' she said gravely. James guessed at what she was meaning.

'We'd do it all again in a heartbeat,' he assured her. 'Because we know you'd do the same for us.'

'Someday, I hope I have the chance to return the favour.'

James gave her a quick smile. 'I'd rather we never need make that decision at all.'

They hurried in to the Great Hall together, with Rain still clutching fiercely to James' hand. He did his best to keep them as clear of the press as possible, and chose a spot as far from the staff table as he could, right the way back near the doors where there was a perpetual draft, and he'd be farthest from the Sorting. It was usually the least-heavily populated of all the Gryffindor table. It wasn't long before the rest of their friends arrived, and their eyes lit up at seeing Rain. They all huddled around and bombarded her with hugs and greetings and remarks on her hair or how healthy she looked. It was soon apparent that even this amount of attention was distressing her, and Cassie formed a guard of honour, making sure nobody came too close or tried to drag her in to too serious a conversation while they chatted awaiting the arrival of the first-years.

The wait was not a long one. Up at the staff table, a sudden silence was their first warning. Headmistress Renshaw set aside her goblet and focused her attention on the great oak doors. Professor Longbottom assumed a silent, regal regard at her right hand. And at his right, Professor Meadows sat with a girlish impatience, her lacquered fingernails tapping a rhythm on the tabletop.

Suddenly, a thousand pairs of eyes converged on James' position, as the doors behind him began to swing open. They all turned to look, and watch as the procession of first-years marched past them one-by-one, looking tiny and timid. Out in the Entrance Hall, James could hear Hagrid's booming voice still ushering them in from outside, gently cajoling them onwards and into the warmth.

The line snaked all the way to the back of the room and along the wall near where James sat, such were the numbers of students. Their nervous fidgeting matched the restlessness of the older students as the first pangs of hunger began to set in. Smells fit to make James' mouth water were wafting in through the now-open doors on a draft up from the Kitchens, and he suddenly found himself wishing he'd indulged in a few extra pumpkin pasties on the train.

'Welcome first-years! Welcome to all of you!' The Headmistress stood and threw her arms wide. Her long, loose sleeves draped like midnight wings, as she became framed by the burning candlelight from James' view like a giant, midnight spectre. 'The year has not even begun and I already find myself exhilarated by the eagerness in the faces gazing up at me. Though, whether that eagerness is for our schooling or for your impending dinner, I'm not quite sure.'

There was a round of chuckles, and Fred's stomach joined in the merriment with a hearty growl of its own.

'With that in mind, I shall not keep you long. I wish only to offer greetings, and a piece of advice, which I feel may speak more to some than to others. Hogwarts is a place of infinite possibilities. Of endless opportunity where your only limitation is the imagination with which you pursue them. You can do, and be, anything here. Anything you once were, you may leave behind and forge anew, like a glorious Phoenix. Your life is yours, now. From this moment onwards. Seize that.'

There was a somewhat confused applause at the impassioned speech, but James had eyes only for Rain, who was staring avidly up at Renshaw, a tiny smile on her lips and a very thoughtful look in her eyes. Speaking to some more than others, indeed.

'Now, without further ado, let me introduce to you the longest-serving member of Hogwarts staff, and someone whom I have always considered a head of the game: the Hogwarts Sorting Hat!'

Another round of scattered applause, peppered this time with some polite laughter. Renshaw gestured with one hand, and a stool rose up from behind the staff table, rickety and rattly and worm-eaten as it was. It bore upon it a garment to match: the Sorting Hat. The group of milling first-years eyed it uncomfortably, clearly uncertain. The faded folds of brown cloth shuddered and stirred, and the Hat – had it eyes – made to look around the room.

And then the crease in the fabric where James knew its mouth to be parted slightly, and the Hat let out an inhuman scream such as nothing James had ever heard. It was nothing that could have been torn from a human throat. It was a rending, tearing scream of unmaking that was somehow still shrill and eerie all at once. James' hackles instantly rose. A few students around them clapped hands to ears. One of the first-year girls began crying.

But Rain, she had her hands wrapped around her head, her eyes scrunched as tight as they would go and was rocking back and forth on her seat. James couldn't hear her over the screams of the Hat, but he could see her lips mouthing, 'No, no, no,' over and over.

Up at the Staff table Renshaw hurried over to where the Hat stood. It was quivering ever faster, the screams rising to a wailing crescendo. As she approached, and reached out a tentative hand to touch it, the Hat fell away, crumbling before her touch like so much dust, leaving only a pile of gritty ash behind that tumbled over the edge of the stool and came to rest upon the flagstone floor. The screaming ended abruptly. A thick, oppressive silence fell upon the Hall. Cassie was hugging Rain fiercely, who was still shaking, as if fearing she would be next.

'Students will return to their dormitories immediately, led by their Prefects,' Renshaw said. A round of despairing groans answered her. 'Food will be supplied in each house common room, once you are all there safely. First-years, you will remain behind and the Professors and I will… we'll work out what to do with you.'

The nervous titters of the first-year students were drowned out by the scraping of dozens of bench seats on the flagstones as a thousand-odd students stood up together, cast a baleful glance back at the stool upon which the Hat had stood, and made their way from the Great Hall. Rain took a little coaxing from Cassie to come along. James worried at her strong reaction, but chalked it up to her newfound fragility rather than anything else that might have been more sinister. He told himself not to invent any conspiracies unnecessarily, especially when they didn't even know what had happened to the Hat.

And so gossip was rife and speculation ruled that night in each of the House common rooms. And James Potter was a long time in going to bed, and when he finally did, he found his dreams troubled by screams and ash, and the feeling that, just this once, he'd like to have a _normal_ year at Hogwarts for a change…


	5. Still so Much to Learn

'Welcome, boys and girls, to your fifth year of magical education. The year most commonly referred to as the year from hell. Your OWL year.'

Professor Plye strode back and forth at the head of the classroom, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. There was complete silence among the Gryffindors who were looking on – those brave enough to try for a Transfiguration OWL. Rumoured to be the hardest of all to achieve under Professor Plye. To James' left, Clip was furiously taking notes, and had filled half a page of his notebook already.

'This year, you will bear witness to magic such as you have never seen it before. To spells, and combinations of spells that your juvenile minds would have thought impossible before today. You will be exposed to the complexity of magic on a hitherto unprecedented level. There will be sweat. There will be tears. For some of you, there will no doubt be blood. But what there will most certainly _not_ be, is a wasting of my time. I give you this one opportunity now to excuse yourself from my class and reconsider, should you find yourselves having a change of heart.'

Nobody moved, though Clip was looking a little green. James and Fred shared a subtle what-have-we-gotten-ourselves-into glance. But credit to the stoutness of heart of the Gryffindors, not a one broke beneath Professor Plye's beady-eyed scrutiny that day.

'Very well, then. Witness.'

And with no further ado, Professor Plye produced his wand from a holster upon his hip. He gave a complex series of waves, his wrist moving lightning-quick. The top of his desk became bathed in a silver-blue glow, subtle enough that it all but disappeared beneath direct scrutiny. And without pause, he transitioned to a wiggly sort of slashing motion, and the tabletop rippled, life a lake surface stirred by a breeze. A flourishing twirl – seamlessly built in to the previous motion – and the wood itself lifted up, flowing like water, and formed into a perfect replica of Hogwarts castle. One final jab and it froze in place, solidifying with a soft, glassy sheen. The grain of the wood was left warped and distorted, but there was no denying that the replica model had been cast from the very flesh of the table itself.

Leah Ridley and Rosalie Gardner gasped and clapped dramatically. James couldn't help his raised eyebrows from showing off how impressed he was.

'I'm doomed,' Clip groaned, slinking down low in his chair.

'Such delicacy will be asked – nay, _required _– of you all come your OWL examinations. It is my task – and a significant one, at that – to prepare you all to face the challenge, and grasp the delicate and yet bold art of Sequencing your Transfigurations. Now, are there any questions?'

There were about a dozen, the answers to which only left James feeling more and more out of his depth for their impending OWLs. He wished someone would have had the decency to warn them.

Defence Against the Dark Arts was little better. At least there, James had the dual benefits of liking the professor, and being reasonably competent at the subject matter.

Or so he thought. The evil little smile that Zoe Meadows was wearing as the class filed in ought to have been warning that they were in for more of the same misery.

'Good _mo-orning_ class,' Professor Meadows sing-songed menacingly.

'Good morning, Professor,' came thirty-odd suddenly hesitant replies.

Professor Meadows gave a girlish giggle. 'Oh, I can practically _smell_ your fear! This year is going to be just excellent. Well, for one of us.'

It seemed to James that she was looking directly at him as she bared her teeth in a smile that could only be described as "predatory".

'I've got a _bad_ feeling about this,' Clip whispered unnecessarily.

'Mister Wallace, something to share? Why don't you come join me at the front of the class?'

'Oh dear, I think a bit of wee just came out.' Clip began the death-march to the front of the room, to a relatively cleared spot next to the Professor's desk. It was where she would direct students that she was about to demonstrate spells on. It was usually a particularly uncomfortable Hex or Jinx, and the class had taken to calling it "Death Row".

'Now, Mister Wallace. Could you stun me?'

Credit to him, there was still a little Gryffindor left in Clip's tongue-in-cheek answer. 'Probably not.'

'Oh, yes, _very_ witty.' Professor Meadows put her hands on hips, and turned to face him, wincing slightly as her weight settled on her wooden leg. 'Just for that, I'm not going to hold back. Now, try and stun me.'

Clip adjusted himself so he stood over a slightly less painful-looking stretch of flagstone floor and raised his wand with an exaggerated sigh of resignation. '_Stupe_-'

Before he could even finish, a great many things happened at once. None of which were particularly beneficial for Clip's well-being. Zoe Meadows gave a flick of her wrist, and a wand appeared there – one that hadn't been there a heartbeat ago. She gave it a twirl, then _pushed_ at Clip with both hands. This summoned a blossoming silvery shield that flew in Clip's direction upon her command like a giant, glistening bubble. She finished the motion by snapping her arms back in tight to her chest just as the bubble hit Clip with a deep, gong-like toll. Her free hand opened and caught Clip's wand as it spun end-over-end into her waiting grip. Sadly, nobody caught Clip as his dazed form fell backwards and landed hard on his bottom on the tiles, a painful wince evident on his face.

There was a little nervous laughter scattered about the room, but even the Gryffindors weren't brave enough to do anything too drastic and draw attention to themselves. That had been a clinical and, frankly, rather scary, display of magic from their professor, performed in a little more than the blink of an eye.

'Now, can anybody tell me which three spells I used to incapacitate young Mister Wallace?' Professor Meadows limped over to where Clip was still sat, rubbing his buttocks, and dragged him to his feet. 'Good manners would have earned you a cushioning charm,' she whispered, just loud enough for the class to hear.

In response to her question, James raised his hand. 'That was a Shield Charm – _Protego – _I recognised the sheen. And then, somehow an _Expelliarmus_ was part of it – did that give it the bluish colour?'

'Well, would you look at that. Perhaps your head isn't filled up with broomstick twigs and flobberworms after all, Potter. Can you guess at how I projected it at Mister Wallace?'

James just shook his head. 'You asked it nicely?'

'Ugh, Well, five points to Gryffindor for your answer. And I'm docking five points for then being decidedly _un_funny.'

Wisely, this time, James said nothing.

'The answer, is a spell with the incantation _Depulsum._ A variant on the banishing charm _Depulso,_ it is used for non-physical subjects – magic, mostly. Useful for throwing shields, moving wards, setting traps. _But_ if cast wrongly, it will unravel your spell and give you a rather nice little explosion for your efforts. Mister Wallace, you may sit back down.'

Clip ambled back to his seat next to James, where he slunk down sheepishly and immediately started furiously scribbling in his notebook.

'James was partly right – I combined multiple spells in quick succession to bring about the demise of Mister Wallace. A _Protego_ shield was interwoven with an _Expelliarmus_ variant and thrown using _Depulsum_ so that when the shield collided with him, not only would it reflect his own spell – had he managed to cast one – it would disarm him and explode on contact, momentarily disorienting him and putting him on his arse on the flagstones. This interweaving of spells is a concept I believe Professor Plye has already addressed, and it is exceptionally relevant within Defence as well. Not just with our own Jinxes and Hexes, but with other disciplines: particularly Charms and Transfigurations. The skilled duellist and most able fighter will be able to seamlessly link spells of all disciplines into his or her repertoire, so that they aren't left simply flinging jets of light at one another like a bunch of angry first-years.'

This, James realised, had been what he'd seen at the Ministry, when his parents had stepped in to rescue them. A true mastery of magic, of multiple disciplines wielded together. The schools didn't exist in isolation, they were an interwoven and many-layered thing, and the bringing together of all of it was where the true power lay. Command of the very environment in which one existed. He shuddered as he recalled Uncle Ron bringing the stone floor to life, and encasing a Steelheart in a coffin of spikes. The blood that had seeped through the cracks had been testament to its efficacy.

This, then, was to be their goal. To master magic in its truest form. An appreciation that it was an organism of many parts, and to approach it as such, rather than scrabbling about the feet of each discipline like children playing in puddles, when the entirety of the ocean beckoned. James took up his quill as Professor Meadows outlined their curriculum for the year. This was something he looked forward to mastering.

But no amount of enthusiasm could properly curb the oppressive workload and daunting learning curve that had been laid out for them in their coming OWL year. The group flopped down into a table in a far corner of the library later that same night, coerced into at least the appearance of study by a particularly zealous Cassie, who started by handing them all neatly-ordered work planners.

Rain had had the foresight to head to bed early, claiming lingering headaches from the previous night's Sorting Hat incident. Tristan had been called away on some Prefect-ly duties of indeterminate nature.

'James, you'll have Transfiguration and Defence on Monday evenings, and then Runes and Herbology on Tuesdays… Fred, you're opposite so that you don't distract one another-'

'Hey!'

'-and Clip, I thought you and I, we could, er… spend Wednesdays going over Charms. Together. That's if you'd like.'

'Forget it, Cassie. I give up.'

From Clip – who'd spent the last half year so hung up on Cassie that even had she farted he'd still proclaim it smelled of roses – this was tantamount to a slap in the face. Cassie's expression certainly spoke to the fact that she regarded it as such. She was momentarily rendered speechless, and left gaping like a lost goldfish.

'Talk to us, Clip. What's the matter?' James slid across the table and interjected before any harsh words were exchanged, or anybody got slapped with a certain Dragon book. He slid in to the chair next to Clip and gestured for Cassie to take his previous spot.

'I'm going to fail,' Clip grumbled. 'There's no way I can do any of what the professors showed us today. I'm doomed. I'm going to get kicked out and have to go back to being a Muggle.'

'Nonsense,' James scoffed. 'Mate, you're one of the smartest blokes I know.'

'One of? Don't you mean _the_ smartest? Heh. But seriously, it won't do me any good because I can't turn it into _actual_ magic. I just- it doesn't work for me.'

'Mate, you practically know the entire year's coursework before we even start it,' Fred added. 'Cassie is probably the only person in the whole school who has read more books than you.'

Clip gave a bitter laugh. 'If only it were as simple as that. The one who reads the most books is the strongest wizard. It sounds childish even to say it aloud.'

'How _does_ it work?' Fred asked. 'I've always just figured you're either magic or you're not.'

'It's something to do with magical cores, is it not?' Cassie probed. 'I must admit, the topic seemed entirely esoteric and it's not something I've looked into.'

'I don't think that's quite the right word for it,' James added, dredging gup what little information he had on the subject from past conversations. 'It's something to do with how susceptible we are to the Magical Flux.'

'Your Resonance,' Cat chimed in. Her tone was grave and expression serious, though it was somewhat ruined by the fact that she was sucking on the end of a sugar quill that Fred had secretly charmed to turn her lips and tongue purple. 'The Magical Flux is everywhere. It's every_thing._ It's in the air we breathe, the water we drink, everything we see or do. But its distribution isn't ordered or regular. Living things, for example, are nuclei for the Flux – the greatest single concentration in any one place is within a living being – be they magical or Muggle. Plants, animals, everything. Mummy learned this from her studies. The difference between magical animals and regular animals is that, for the magical ones, the Flux is _within _them, as if a seed that they grew outwards from, but for a regular animal it simply covers them, like a fine coat of dust.'

'Is it the same, then, for humans?' Cassie asked. 'Is that why Muggles can't channel magic, but we can?'

'Mummy thinks it's different. 'She thinks all humans are the same. That everybody possesses the same affinity, the same Resonance with the Magical Flux. But in Muggles, they are unawares of it. It is entirely hidden from them. In Witches and Wizards, it is again, different for every single person. One's Resonance, or their ability to focus the Flux – essentially the power they have over it, and the strength of their magic – is as varied as a fingerprint, or the bond with your wand. For some it is strong, and for others, it is quite weak. For Squibs, it is almost non-existent. They can sense the magic, they know it is there, but any attempt to grasp it ultimately fails.

'This has been known about in some form for generations. Early Wizards thought that the proliferation of a line of strong magical power was done by breeding with a powerful Witch. That the passing on of a strong Magical Resonance was a genetic thing – thus began the earliest iterations of Blood Purity, the Sacred Families, and the Old Blood. This has been easily disproven, as some of the most powerful wizards – Dumbledore and Voldemort, for example, were not of particularly pure blood. Other theories exist; that it reflects strength of character, or a reflection of one's soul, or it takes a commingling of magical and muggle blood to bring out the strength, but none have been proven conclusively. I think at the end of the day, though, nobody really knows _why_, other than the fact that we weren't all created equal.'

The whole group was regarding Cat with impressed looks – none more so than Cassie, who had actually been taking notes.

'So, what I'm getting from this, is that I'm basically half-Squib and there's nothing I can do about it. Great.' Clip flopped forwards onto the desk with his head in his hands.

'No, silly,' Cat said brightly, flashing the top of Clip's head a purple-lipped smile. 'It means that you are very wonderful at very many things, and you should focus on them, rather than worrying about trying to change the things that you have no control over. It will make you much happier, overall.'

Clip actually looked up and met Cat's eye. 'Thanks, Cat. That was weirdly wise. And helpful, in a roundabout sort of way. I appreciate it.'

Cat beamed, giving everyone a good look at her purple-stained teeth. Fred was looking supremely pleased with himself.

'It still doesn't solve the problem of passing my OWLs, though,' Clip added. 'I can't feel-good my way through that.'

'Well we will help you, of course,' Cassie offered. She leaned over the table and took Clip's hand – an act that almost made the poor boy swallow his tongue. 'We don't have to be limited to _only_ Wednesdays. We could do Fridays, and Saturday evenings, too.'

Clip flashed a wobbly smile. 'Thanks Cassie. And don't get me wrong, you are absolutely wonderful. But, erm… teaching really isn't your strong suit.'

Cassie snatched her hand back quicker than a flask. 'Not _what?!'_

'And didn't you lose to a second year in a duel last year?'

'He- he caught be by surprise. And- and that's _not_ the point! I-'

'We'll all teach you, Clip,' James cut in before heads exploded or books were thrown. 'We'll all be studying it anyway, so we'll just find a quiet room and bring some books up and do a little extra practice with you while we study.'

'Excuse me,' Cassie said, clearly not done. 'We're going to be practicing magic in the _same room_ as all these books?'

'Well, that was sort of the plan…'

'Unbelievable! I'll countenance no such thing.'

'We do it in class _all the time.'_

'A controlled environment-!'

'Well, why don't you come along to supervise them?' Cat asked diplomatically. 'To make sure nobody harms the books.'

Cassie shot the group at large a baleful glare. Clip, for the first time all day, was actually smiling. 'Fine then. I suppose I will allow it.'

James smiled. A sentiment that was reflected back at him across all of those gathered. Maybe, just maybe, there was a little hope for them yet.

But it wasn't to be found in any of their lessons over the next few days, as Herbology, Runes and Charms all piled on to make James' life increasingly miserable and his sleep increasingly precious and treasured. So exhausted was he, that by Thursday morning, he exited the Gryffindor common room out the portrait hole and just about walked smack into Odette without realising who it was.

'Mmm, sorry,' he mumbled, shuffling around her towards the staircase.

'James Sirius Potter is _that_ how you are going to greet me?'

'Wha- Oh.'

In comparison to James' befuddled, sleep-tousled state, Odette looked as if she'd just finished preparing for some kind of pageant. She'd used some kind of spell to perfectly straighten her hair, and it fell delicately about her shoulders in an immaculate curtain of familiar, ashen blonde. Her eyes glowed beneath perfectly-plucked brows, there was not a blemish on her skin, and even her uniform was immaculately pressed and primped, albeit with a skirt far shorter than James was sure Renshaw would deem as regulation.

'James, just what have you been _doing_ all morning? I've been standing here waiting for you for an age.'

'Sleeping,' James mumbled his grouchy reply. The nerve of her, to show up looking so damned _perfect_ at this unholy hour.

'The sun's been up for well over an hour.'

'I know. I've been trying to avoid it.'

'You know how unbecoming I find sulking.'

James sighed, and made a visible effort to at least straighten his tie and stifle the jaw-cracking yawn that battled to overwhelm him. 'Alright, I'm awake. You're looking annoyingly gorgeous this morning. I can only assume you've marched all the way up here to tell me I've done something wrong.'

She cuffed him over the head. 'Well, you have _now._ That's the last time I'm going to any effort to visit you.'

Her huffiness was working in dragging James out of his foggy stupor. 'Alright, I'm sorry. It's just- fifth year is a _nightmare._ There's so much work, and we've already got homework enough for an entire _term_ last year, and it's only the first week. I've hardly slept, I go to bed seeing notes and I swear I've started sleep-talking incantations. I'm worried my wand is going to go off on its own, it's gotten so bad!'

Odette sauntered closer, pinning James up against the balustrade on the seventh-floor landing. Her eyes suddenly danced with a pale light, and a playful smile tugged the corner of her lips. 'Well now, I'd hate to think of your wand going off all on its own with you alone up in this cold, dark tower. And me so very far away…'

James smirked, and leaned in to her embrace. 'Do you ever think about anything else?'

'You abandoned me for half of the holidays, James Potter, after building me up so mercilessly. Just think of all that… pressure that still needs a release.'

James didn't have to think for long. 'I make it twenty minutes until we need to show up for our first classes.'

'Judging on past performance, that should be ample time.'

James was cut short from what he told himself was about to be a brilliantly witty comeback by the portrait swinging open and a gaggle of Gryffindor first-years shuffling out. They were wide-eyed and skittish and clustered in a tight little group. They looked small and timid and – James thought a little cruelly – not particularly _Gryffindor-_looking_._ Add to that a great deal of surprise at stumbling over himself and Odette locked in an amorous embrace right outside their common room. James removed his hand as stealthily as possible from Odette's skirt.

'Good morning,' he said, a little too brightly.

The group just stared back up at him, blinking owlishly.

'After you,' Odette offered, favouring the one in the front with a sickly-sweet smile.

They shuffled around a little bit, but none moved forwards. A few were eyeing the stairs as if they had suddenly grown scales and started breathing fire. He saw that there was a missing step that flashed in and out of existence, seemingly at random. Of course, it was the first Thursday of a month containing the letter "E". Missing stair day.

'It's easy to avoid,' James told them kindly, stepping forward and squatting down next to the one at the head of the group. She was a tall girl with a severe blonde ponytail and skin so fair she almost looked ethereal. She took a hesitant step backwards at his sudden proximity.

'W-what if we fall?' she stammered. 'It looks far.'

'You won't fall. I'll tell you the secret trick, okay? What's your name?'

'S-Safia.'

'Well, Safia, watch the disappearing step with me closely.' James leaned in and pointed to where the lowermost step suddenly blinked out of existence. Then, without warning, it returned, and another disappeared in its stead. 'It follows a pattern. The disappearing stair, in order, will be one, four, seven, three, nine, four, twelve. Can you remember that?'

Safia repeated the numbers back to him. 'The human mind is capable of comfortably memorising a series of seven digits without assistance.'

'That's a… fun little fact, Safia.'

'Not really, but it's relevant.'

James' eyebrows rose. Safia turned back to her little group and they huddled together, discussing quietly and fervently. Presently, she turned back to him and visibly steeled herself, with hands on hips.

'We've calculated that if we leave after the first disappearance of the fourth step, then we can run down without hitting any missing steps in our path.'

Turning to look back at the weedy little group behind Safia, all glasses and books and oversized satchels, James didn't doubt that they had.

'Watch this,' she said firmly, and then bolted. She hurtled down the steps, and James looked on, impressed, as she missed not a one. It was just as she had said.

From then, each time the fourth step vanished, another member of the group stepped up, introduced themselves to James, and then bolted down the stairs. He watched with growing amusement as young Dennis, and Lawrence, and Elena, and Clara, and even a little Harry sprinted down flat-tack in succession, only to gather in a milling group upon the landing below.

When they had all safely navigated the dangers of the missing stair, Safia turned and waved back up to James. 'Thank you for saving us, Sir!'

'No worries – and it's James,' he replied.

'Thank you, Sir James!'

James waved them farewell, bemused by what appeared to have been a bunch of miniature Ravenclaws in Gryffindor ties. Just how _had_ they been Sorted, exactly?

'I don't know what it is about watching you deal with children, James Potter, but I'm a soft kiss away from tearing the shirt off your back right here and now.'

James' smile returned. He found himself enjoying this game. 'We've only ten minutes left. Come, I'll walk you to class.'

She stamped her foot petulantly. 'And now how am I to concentrate with my heart a-flutter and my mind running wild?'

'I'm sure you'll find a way.'

They set out down the stairs together, with Odette in an overplayed sullen mood. She periodically pointed out abandoned classrooms and disused broom closets as they descended, but James paid her no heed.

'So your friend is back,' she eventually ventured, somewhere around the fourth floor landing. James didn't need to ask which friend she was referencing.

'She is. Thank you again for what you did last year. I don't know if we'd have made it out without you. Holly can be…'

'A bitch?'

'_Difficult_, is how I was going to put it.'

Odette clasped his hand suddenly, and paused in her descent, bringing them to a stop in the middle of the staircase. A low, grinding noise sounded and they began to shift directions to a corridor James knew to be a dead end, but she ignored it, her eyes fixed firmly on his own.

'You won't make me regret it, will you James?' her voice was soft, hesitant and lacked any of her usual confident bluster. Had James not known her any better, he would have said she sounded scared.

'Rain is my friend, and I mean it when I say I'll do anything to help her get her life back. But the part of my life that you occupy, Odette, is entirely your own. Nobody comes close.'

'I won't be second, James. Not for anyone. I won't have you make a fool of me.'

'I wouldn't dare.'

'See that you don't.' And with that not so subtle warning hanging in the air between them, Odette left James with a chaste little kiss on the cheek and fled down the dead-end corridor to her classroom, leaving James waiting for the staircase to right itself, pondering all the while just what sort of juggling act he was going to have to maintain to keep his promises to everyone.


	6. The Missing Tapestry

A notice went up on the noticeboards outside the Great Hall on the first Saturday of term that made James' heart sink.

_Quidditch Captains please schedule tryouts for no later than the following Sunday, and provide team lists to your head of house by Monday afternoon._

In all the maelstrom of their hectic first week, the prospect of Quidditch had actually slipped from his mind – something that he never thought would happen. But he'd not heard a word from Professor Longbottom, or anybody on Quidditch. The cold, sinking sensation in his gut made him aware of just how much he'd been holding out for a Captain's badge this year.

He wondered briefly if he'd even be allowed on the team – his lifetime ban handed down from Calantha Merriweather had never been formally rescinded, after all.

Though bright sun streamed in through the open doors, and the Enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall revealed not a cloud in the sky, James' own mood was gloomy and depressing. He pushed a bit of bacon around his plate with a fork, his appetite abandoning him, and he hardly even stirred when Fred announced he was going to take advantage of the weather and get in a few hours of practice.

The others similarly came and went, none eager to spend too long under the clouds of James' temperament. Cat invited him down to the fringes of the Forbidden Forest to hunt for mushrooms, Clip and Cassie were already neck-deep in books. James took some small amusement, at least, from the way they had perfected the ability of bickering like an old married couple despite their not actually being together. His own theory was that they were both just too scared to ask.

This left him alone with his thoughts, as the Great Hall slowly cleared out around him. The sun climbed steadily higher, the plates up and down the table began to vanish as students abandoned them, and soon, some time around mid-morning, James found himself the only one in the hall.

Or so he'd thought.

'Hello James Potter!'

'Argh- Merlin, Rain! You scared the life out of me. How did you do that, I thought nobody else was in here?'

Rain plopped down onto the bench seat opposite, an annoyingly bright smile on her face. 'Miss Renshaw says that sometimes it is best to see but not be seen. I was practicing.'

'Lovely.'

'And besides, you haven't looked up in about ten minutes. Is your bacon really that interesting?'

'Not particularly.'

He caught a glimmer in her eye about a half-second before her hand darted out and snatched it off of his place. She popped it whole into her mouth with a playful wink that soon turned into a frown.

'Ew, it's cold.'

'It's been sitting there a while.'

'You are very mopey today.'

James looked up from his plate and across the table. Her hair shone red in the morning light that streamed in through the window and bathed them from the ceiling above. It was held back from her face with a blue silk ribbon that matched the flowers on her dress. Her fingers were tapping rapidly on the tabletop. James could hear the steady _tap-tap-tap _of her feet on the floor under the table. She was all but bouncing up and down with excitement.

'And you are decidedly… bubbly.'

This was a Rain that James was unaccustomed to. So openly wearing her emotions. So lively and energetic. It both reminded him of what they had lost and so made him sad, but also simultaneously gave him joy to see her happier. Her life simpler now.

'What is making you sad?'

'I think that my ban from last year means I'm still kicked off the Quidditch team.'

A flicker of uncertainty skittered across Rain's features. 'D-did I get you kicked off?'

'No, Rain, you weren't here, remember?'

'Oh. Right. Sorry, I forget.' It was her turn to look a little sad.

'Quidditch trials are due to start this week, and I haven't heard a thing about the team. And I'm one of the longest-standing members on it.'

'I know Quidditch,' Rain said. 'Renshaw told me.' And she spun sideways to straddle her seat, ducking and weaving as if she were riding a broom. She mimed scoring a goal, cheering, and then something that looked like a mid-air fistfight.

'That pretty much sums it up,' James said with a wry smile.

Suddenly, Rain sprung up to her feet. She splayed her hands on the table and leaned in to face James. He made to flinch backwards, but the wave of nausea he expected never came. That, at least, would take some getting used to.

'Come,' Rain commanded. And there was a hint of previous imperiousness in it, just a shadow of the regal regard of the old Rain that still lingered.

'You don't want to hang out with me, I'm too depressed. Go find someone to be happy with.'

Confusion marred her smile. 'We are friends, yes? You are sad, and I am happy. I will help you. I have forgotten many things, James, but this I remember. Friends help. Friends share. Friends sacrifice.'

James gave a heavy sigh. He couldn't very well argue with his own words. He stood up, and allowed Rain to lead the way. She happily did so, skipping out of the Great Hall and down the steps the courtyard outside. They turned off the path that led down towards the castle grounds and instead headed over to the greenhouses.

A thought flittered through his mind – a recollection of his earlier conversation with Odette. Would she consider this private audience a betrayal of her trust? There was nothing in it, obviously, but when had James ever been able to get that message through to her? He shrugged it off – she'd said she was to spend the day down on the pitch, working through practice drills with some of the Slytherin team hopefuls. Many of their older players had left, and so she was faced with recruiting new and inexperienced members to fill the gaps left behind.

'What are you thinking of?' Rain asked, frowning quizzically at James' distant expression.

They were walking a narrow path between two of the greenhouses. Gravel crunched beneath their feet. The sun shone brightly off the panes of glass to either side, and the rich, earthy smell of the Greenhouses wafted out through the opened windows along with drooping, verdant foliage that occasionally would shiver and retract as they passed.

'Nothing,' James lied. Then, after he became uncomfortable in the silence that followed, 'So, tell me about your summer. You mentioned Renshaw helped you recall some memories. How… how much did you lose?'

Now it was Rain's turn for quiet introspection. The light in her eyes sputtered as her gaze retreated inward. She looked down at her feet, and started plucking at an invisible thread on her dress.

'I lost everything, James,' she whispered. 'Every single memory that I had. Everything that made me who I was… gone. I know that that is terrible, but I also cannot know just what it is that I have lost. I am sad for something I do not know, nor understand. But when I see you all… my friends… it must have been a happy time, and I grieve that I cannot recall what we shared. Were we… happy, James?'

James took along time to answer, prefacing his response with a long, slow exhale. He ran a hand through his hair. How to answer such a vast, all-consuming question?

'We were… unstoppable.'

She seemed content with James' answer, and favoured him with a wistful smile. 'I learned something, throughout all of this. I learned that people are made up of accretions of thousands upon thousands of memories, experiences, sensations and feelings. That is what we are. Perhaps it is what they call our soul. It is certainly our individuality. Like a tapestry, where every thread adds colour and life to the image – one that will only be completed at the end of our lifetimes. That is what makes us who we are.

'But for me… all that is gone. Stolen away, the tapestry torn from the wall, so that all that was left was the ugly stone of the wall that held it, and no needle and thread will ever leave a mark there.'

James had stopped walking as Rain spoke, and could only stare back at her, perhaps only now was he beginning to appreciate the enormity of her loss.

'Some things returned easily. Things of intuition. I can speak and walk. I know a flower from the river from the sky. I did not return as a babbling child. But anything that made me who I was… I fear it is forever gone.'

Appalled though he was, James forced himself to scramble for something encouraging to say.

'Maybe the tapestry is gone, but we'll see if we can't still paint a pretty picture on your stretch of wall.' He felt foolish even as he spoke the words, but the bright smile that illuminated Rain's face was sufficient reward.

'Thank-you James. That I am constantly in awe of the gift of your friendship leads me to believe that true friendship is not a thing I knew in my past life.'

James didn't know what to say to that. He hid the flicker of hurt that threatened to mar his features by turning to study a drooping plant that cascaded from a nearby open window. He took the rough foliage between his fingers, and they came free with a coating of fine, powdery substance. Greenthumb's Glitter, it was called. Useful as a remedy for sore throats, Professor Longbottom would tell them.

He continued walking, Rain falling in step beside him.

'So, there is nothing, then, that you recall from before?'

'I dream sometimes… that I'm a different girl. In a different… life? But here, this place, it is familiar to me. Hogwarts.'

'Memories from before you were taken, then? From our first years?'

'No. They are different. It feels… older. In all of them, when I come across a mirror, I see that I am faceless. And that always I am wearing yellow.'

'You were in Hufflepuff?' James didn't know why he said it, let alone with such sudden conviction. Something she'd said had stirred the dust that covered a memory somewhere, something he'd seen but was now buried. He reached out towards it, but could come up with nothing further.

'Perhaps, but I cannot be certain. These memories, they are plagued by feelings of deep loneliness. That much, I do recall.'

'Well, you've got us, now. There's no need for that.'

'Friends,' Rain agreed, nodding as if there was a great import to the word.

Their meandering path took them around to an area out the back of the greenhouses. Here, the small, paved square was bounded on one side by a sandstone wall, blocking out much of the sunlight. Unused pots and trays were stacked up against it, and great hessian sacks of earth gave off a rich, humus scent beneath the heat. A blackbird eyed them from above, tilting its head curiously as they intruded upon its solitude.

A sudden uncomfortable feeling stole over James as he realised that this was the spot behind the greenhouses where the older students came to… well, at least there hadn't been a rake across the path. That was the secret signal of the spot's occupancy. Allegedly. Odette would certainly not approve of their choice of environs for their morning stroll.

James jumped as hurried footfalls sounded on the gravel path they had just finished traversing. The little bird took flight with a startled shriek, and the pair turned to see an out-of-breath little Gryffindor first-year scramble around the corner. Momentary relief flashed upon his ruddy face before he doubled over hands on knees and started sucking in great lungfuls of air.

'Hello Lawrence,' James said, recognising his tousled, sandy hair and slightly buck teeth from their meeting on the seventh-floor stairwell earlier in the week.

'Hello… Sir James…' Lawrence panted, still catching his breath. 'Been trying… to find you…'

'You look exhausted!' Rain exclaimed, rushing towards him, her face a mask of concern. 'Would you like a seat?'

Lawrence's face went slack as Rain dragged over an upturned planting pot for a seat. 'You're _pretty,'_ he gawked. He then turned to James. 'Is she your girlfriend?'

'No!' James hastened to say. At the same time that Rain cheerily exclaimed, 'Yes!'

James shot a horrified look at Rain. Rain spun to him, crushing hurt evident upon her face. For his part, Lawrence was looking as if the pair of them had suddenly morphed into a couple of hungry Lethifolds.

'B-but you said-' Rain began.

'I'm sorry!' squeaked Lawrence.

'It's not like that!' James tried to assure Lawrence.

Rain turned to leave.

'Rain wait!'

'Renshaw wants to see you both in her office now _bye!'_ And with that, Lawrence was gone, fleeing off up the path.

James had to lunge and grab Rain's wrist to stop her from following. There were tears in her eyes. 'I thought… friends,' she whispered.

'We _are,'_ James assured her. 'But _girl_friend means something different.'

'Why? I am a girl. And a friend. Why is this thing different?'

And so James spent the entirety of their trip up to Renshaw's office trying to explain to Rain how _girl_friends and _boy_friends worked. He was shocked that Rain's missing memories ran this deep. His floundering explanations left her suitably wide-eyed and furiously blushing by the time they pushed open the door to Renshaw's office to see both her and Professor Longbottom awaiting them.

'Good morning Mister Potter,' Renshaw spoke seriously. 'Miss Rain – are you well?'

'Y-yes, Miss Renshaw. James was just telling me about girlfriends and boyfriends.'

James nearly swallowed his tongue.

'Mister Potter, this is most inappropriate. Miss Rain has been through-'

'It's not like that, headmistress!'

'It's okay, Miss Renshaw, we were just down behind the greenhouses-'

This time, it was Professor Longbottom's turn to start choking. 'James! How could you-'

'We _weren't-'_

'Mister Potter, are you not currently involved with Miss Mansfield?'

'Ooh, James you have _another_ girlfriend?'

'Rain, you're _not-_ Professors, please. Why did you want to see us?'

There was the faintest twinkle of mirth in Professor Longbottom's eyes that said he was enjoying this far too much. But he remained silent as the headmistress straightened in her chair and beckoned the pair closer.

'The two of you are familiar with what happened to the Sorting Hat, at the Opening Feast, I presume?'

James instantly went on the defensive. 'I swear, Headmistress, it wasn't me. I put a _little _bit of Sneezing Powder on the Hufflepuff's cutlery, and sure, maybe Fred and I had _some_ involvement in the seal that got loose in the Slytherin common room last night, but I swear I never-'

'Silence, Mister Potter. I did not drag you up here to accuse you of the act.'

'Oh. _Oh.'_ It dawned on James then, just what the calling of the two of them together might mean.

'From the tone of your voice, you have an inkling of just why I have called you here. Come closer, and have a look at this, if you will. Tell me if it looks familiar.'

James and Rain approached Renshaw's desk. Professor Longbottom took a step nearer, so that he was peering over shoulder. She produced from a locked draw a small, open-topped wooden box, which she levitated up and on to the table. James craned his neck to see what was inside.

The walls were coated in a patina of ashy dust. The neat grains of the wood were coated in sooty, grey smears. Tiny clusters of it, like dead snowflakes clung to the sides and gathered in little clumps across the bottom of the container, which seemed oddly uneven to James' eyes. It gave off a sharp, acrid smell that stung James' nose, and caught in the back of his throat.

_Ah, this is true death._

James leapt at the suddenness and the needle-sharp clarity with which the voice sounded in his head. He glanced around to see if any of the others had heard it.

'Frightening, isn't it?' Renshaw nodded, clearly taking his shock as a visceral reaction to what she had shown them. For his part, James patted his pocket, where his wand was stowed securely away. To his touch, it felt… eager.

With a gesture of her wrist, the dust in the bottom of the box stirred aside, picked up on a miniature breeze and blown away to reveal the reason for the uneven base: a thick coating of some dark, purple-black ichor that painted the bottom of the wood like a stain on life itself.

'Does this look familiar to either of you?' Renshaw asked. There was a poised, coiled curiosity in her voice. An anxiousness awaiting their answers.

Rain shook her head vigorously, her short hair whipping back and forth. 'It looks… _vile._'

'Indeed. Mister Potter?'

'This is what was damaging the Heart. It was what was left at the Flamel's tomb.'

A raised brow was all Renshaw gave him as a look of surprise. Suddenly, James felt as if he'd said too much, revealing his presence at the Flamel's tomb. But Renshaw moved onward with the conversation.

'This is now what is left of our dear Sorting Hat, I am afraid.'

James nodded. He'd gathered as much. Rain clapped hands to her mouth, shocked. 'Oh, _no!_ He was so friendly.'

'You spoke with him?' This from Renshaw. It came out sharper, James was sure, than she intended.

'Y-yes. The castle is so _boring._ And the portraits just say the same thing over and over. The Hat was interesting, and he was so lovely.'

Renshaw looked as if she wanted to pursue this line of conversation, but Professor Longbottom subtly cleared his throat behind her. Briefly, James wondered at Rain living in the castle with Renshaw over the summer – did Renshaw not have a home of her own to go to, or – after her incarceration the year prior, did she not feel safe in returning to it?

'Very well. So, we have a common link between these attacks-'

'The Desecrator,' James spoke out of turn, letting his thoughts run wild for a moment. All eyes turned to him. Renshaw was nodding slowly, gravely.

'The mark of the Desecrator. That which he, or she, or whatever monster that is doing this, leaves behind. An attack of which we haven't seen the like in over a year of relative peace. And now, it returns, within our very halls.'

_True death._

There it was again. This time, less of the actual words, more of a sense, a series of emotions and feelings that conveyed the message. It left James chilled, and wiping his clammy palms nervously on his trousers.

'There is another link, as well. The original sacking of the Flamel's tomb four years ago generated three suspects – all of whom were found to have had their memories removed, and replaced with fake ones. Ones so real that they would have gone to the grave swearing that they did it. Not even Veritaserum would have saved them. But that is not what is of interest. It is the clinical precision of the removal which is of note. There was not a hint of what was left. Our best magical Cerebral Architects could not rebuild what had been lost-'

'Oh.'

Rain's exclamation was soft and sad, but the agony in it was enough to derail Renshaw's monologue. A flicker of irritation crossed her features, followed by confusion, and then, for the briefest of moments, something that might be akin to empathy. As good a proof as any that there was no hope for Rain in getting her memories back. Delivered with the cold, indifferent precision of someone acutely unaware of the loss. James reached out to take her hand beneath the table, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. The tears welling in the corner of Rain's eyes made a fire stir in his chest. Not for the first time, he swore vengeance on the Desecrator, for what he'd taken from them.

'As Miss Rain as surmised – this is eerily similar to what has befallen her. A further link between the two. When one adds in the fact that this destruction, this desolation and desecration is similar to what has been seen at magical sites across Britain and Europe, one cannot help but infer that the Desecrator is back, and active once more. And that they are closer to striking our heart than ever.'

Rain gasped. James ground his teeth fiercely.

'This destruction – including that which has befallen our dear sorting hat – is something so utterly complete that it is nigh on unprecedented in its severity. It is not a simple physical destruction, no, it goes far beyond that. This is a removal – a complete purging – of these objects from _magical_ existence, as well as physical. A scrubbing of their presence from the Magical Flux, an unpicking of the unseen threads that is their magical fingerprint. It is an… an _unmaking_ like nothing I have ever seen before.'

The wrongness, James surmised, that uneasy feeling that he got when he looked at this destruction – perhaps that was the magical part of him instinctively flinching back from what he was witnessing. Perhaps Cassie might know more about it. It explained why he felt nauseous the longer he considered the remnants of the Sorting Hat, and, certainly, Rain appeared to be feeling the same, if the sickly green pallor to her cheeks was any indication.

'We think this thick, purple ichor is a manifestation of the destroyed magic. It is, essentially, Magical Flux that has been burned out. I strongly discouraging you from attempting to touch it.'

James looked up from the box to face Renshaw. His mind was racing with what all of this could mean for them. But for all the esoteric implications that burned-out Flux and utter Unmaking might have, he couldn't get past the fact that the Desecrator was back. And had the ability to attack _within_ the Hogwarts walls. They'd driven him off once already – and it had cost them dear. Could they really afford to pay the price to do it again? Rain's memories – and likely most of her magical ability – gone, Renshaw, weakened after her incarceration abroad, and still hounded by old enemies. Holly, gone, perhaps never to speak to them again. And James left feeling like he was bailing out a sinking ship using only a sieve. He wasn't beginning to feel out of his depth – he was already under and losing sight of the surface above.

Professor Longbottom stepped forward and placed his hands on the desk, leaning over to meet both of the students' eyes. James felt his gaze like a physical presence, a steadying hand on his shoulder.

'We speak of this to you, because there are no others in this school, perhaps in the entire country, who are as close to the matter. The three of us were there in the Department of Mysteries last year. We saw what happened. We fought, and bled, to keep Rain safe. But now there's a greater threat, and the bastards may be inside the very walls. So, you must needs know the gravity of the situation. You must prepare, and you must be cautious. As a wily old man once used to say, you need to exercise _constant vigilance._'

James and Rain nodded in unison, both suitably cowed.

'Very well,' Renshaw announced, clapping her hands firmly. The noise startled Rain, and she visibly flinched. 'Miss Rain, you may leave us. Professor Longbottom has one more thing to discuss with Mister Potter, in his capacity as head of Gryffindor house – it needn't concern you.'

Rain nodded hesitantly, and shot James a final, timid glance before she turned and scurried off down the steps. The sound of her hasty footfalls faded slowly, and it wasn't until the distant grating of the gargoyle stature returning to its place that Renshaw spoke again.

'Mister Potter, I must warn you about becoming too involved with young Miss Rain. She-'

'Headmistress, I _swear_ there was no funny business. She just _asked._ We're not-'

'That is not what I meant. Though I likewise would discourage you from that path should you choose to take it. What I mean is that you must take a caution as to what you reveal before her. Do not let her into your deepest confidences. Do not, Mister Potter, make yourself overly vulnerable in her presence.'

The words were like a blow to James' gut, and delivered as flippantly as if Renshaw discussed tomorrow's weather.

'You don't _trust_ her?' James let his anger raise the tone of his voice. 'After all she's been through? After what she's lost? You think she's somehow _behind_ it all? I-'

Renshaw raised a hand, but it was enough to cut James off cleanly.

'Perhaps her involvement is not voluntary, but something that she is inherently vulnerable to, considering her murky past. It was not without suspicion that the Steelhearts were ordered to capture her for the Ministry, after all. She has been far too close to the centre of all that has occurred for far too long for even one as tactless as yourself to not suspect intimate involvement on a level we don't yet understand.'

The insult stung, but not as much as the distrust of Rain did. James wanted to rail against it, to argue and convince Renshaw she was wrong, but he had enough tact at least to realise that that would be a lost cause. So he just gritted his teeth until his jaw ached, and nodded his head. He turned to Professor Longbottom and spoke stiffly, formally.

'There is something you wished to speak to me about, sir?' The words sounded false even to James' own ears.

'Yes. Something of a lighter topic. Reports reached me of a particularly helpful older student assisting some first-years in navigating the tricky disappearing step on the seventh floor.'

James frowned, taken off-guard and unsure where this was going. 'They were scared of it. Not very Gryffindor, if you ask me.' He didn't even bother to hide the accusatory tone in his voice. Let Renshaw know she'd made a mistake in Sorting the students herself – just like James was sure she'd made one in not trusting Rain.

'It wouldn't kill you to speak a little more kindly of your house-mates, James. Nonetheless, that was very responsible of you, and I'd like to take the opportunity to award you twenty points to Gryffindor.'

'Right, thanks.' How this warranted a special audience with Renshaw involved, James failed to see.

'Such character traits are well suited to a leader, wouldn't you think?'

A noncommittal shrug. 'I guess so.'

'Perhaps, a captain…'

'Professor, where are you going with this?' It was only now that James perked up. He tried to still the racing of his heart, to push down on the excitement that threatened to bubble over. He couldn't deal with the disappointment if he was denied yet again.

'Well, it's taken a while to arrange, what with you being eternally banned from stepping foot on the Quidditch Pitch and all, but there _is_ a reason that the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain has yet to be announced.'

Renshaw cleared her throat. 'I'm afraid the dalliance was mine, Mister Potter. But I have no hesitations now in clearing you of your lifetime ban – an edict I am in full position to make as once-again-Headmistress of this school.'

The dam finally broke, and genuine excitement flowed forth onto James' features. 'I can play?'

'I should hope so,' Professor Longbottom grinned, fishing from his pocket a shining, silver badge. 'And you'd better get to building your team, too, Captain. Slytherin and Hufflepuff already have a few days' advantage on us.'

James accepted the badge reverently, the glinting and gleaming of the silver crossed broomsticks catching the sunlight and setting the figure alive in his hands. He made no hesitation in pinning it to the breast of his shirt. In his mind, he was already writing the letter to let his father know.

And the wave of ill will that had been building towards Renshaw evaporated, just like that. Perhaps there wasn't so much harm in what she said, after all. It would be an easy thing to let Cassie take over looking out for Rain…

But such thoughts were pushed from his head in favour of formations, team combinations, strategies and tactics as he made his way gleefully down the stone steps leading from the Headmistress' office with only the most cursory of farewells.

Back up in the Headmistress' office, Professor Longbottom crossed his arms and pursed his lips as an exuberant James Potter practically skipped from the office.

'Don't think I don't see what you're doing,' he muttered darkly. 'I'll not be used thus. And you won't be able to buy the boy's loyalty forever.'

'Life is an exchange, Professor. A give and take. Push and pull, all the way down.'

Professor Longbottom's frown deepened. 'Then why is it that I feel like all I'm getting is pushes. And somewhere up ahead there's a cliff waiting for me.'

'I suggest that's because you haven't yet worked out the game.' There was a clear dismissal in her tone, Professor Longbottom didn't need telling twice. He stalked from the room.

Renshaw was far better suited to care for the children than an inept Ministry, but her little games could be infuriating. Professor Longbottom let the door slam on his way out, and muttered darkly to himself. 'When I find that edge, woman, I'll make damned sure I pull you over it with me.'


	7. Ironfist

'So, _captain,_ who's going to make the team? What's our strategy this year? What do you think our chances of winning are? Can anyone beat Hufflepuff? Can we have next Thursday off, I've a date with a packet of Endless Sneezing powder and the unused chimneys in the Slytherin common room.'

James laughed, holding up his hands for surcease from the barrage of Fred's endless questions. It had been thus ever since he'd announced his captaincy the previous week. Now that they had finally arranged for a trial to select new members for the team, the questioning had reached a fever pitch.

The pair of them were sat in the Gryffindor changing rooms, early for the session. James had made sure to put up parchment all over the house and school noticeboards – he was hoping for a sizeable turnout. He'd have placed even more fliers, but a coalition of the Gobstones Club, the Junior Arithmancers Guild and the Magical Creatures Enthusiasts had cornered him in the corridor last Thursday to insist he stop covering up their own notices of club meetings.

Truth was, he was more than a little nervous. He only really needed to fill two positions from last year – the third Chaser position, and Carina Swift's now-vacant Keeper role. But a full tryout for all positions would help keep the returning members on their toes, and show him who still had the fire in them to play, and who was content just to coast along.

'On Thursdays Slytherin practice anyway,' James mumbled distractedly. He was aiming for at least a half-dozen new hopefuls, as well as the returning players, to show up. He'd prepared a few spare brooms from the least knobbly of the school's stock, and laid them out on the pitch in preparation.

'Exactly,' Fred was rubbing his hands together eagerly. He and James had arrived a half-hour before practice to set up and discuss their plan for the afternoon. James wasn't sure Fred had actually been any _help_ per se, but he had been quite adept at coming up with ways to charm the newbies' broomsticks to "keep them vigilant", as he put it.

'Bit of a head-wind today,' James muttered. 'We'll use the northern goal-hoops. Have the Chasers practice throwing into the wind.'

'If I hurry, there might be enough time to Hex enough of the stadium that if the Slytherins come to spy, their seats will turn into Blast-Ended Skrewts and try to eat them.'

'Are you evening _listening?'_

'Okay, fine, giant flobberworms. Something less deadly.'

James gave up, and took to pacing the length of the room. The doors were thrown open and the sunlight streamed in, the setting sun angled such that it plated the surface of the lake with a burnished bronze hue that set the grass of the pitch afire to their eyes. Small clouds of dust puffed up as James tracked back and forth, worried about by streamers of wind that slipped in through the open doorway.

There was movement out on the pitch, and James spun to see a figure approaching, broom draped casually across his shoulders, and wearing last year's Gryffindor team outfit – a statement if ever there was one. It was Preston Lynch.

'Oh, shit,' James muttered.

'Lynch?' Fred guessed, craning his neck around the open door to look. 'Git's still ten minutes early.'

In all the excitement of being named captain, James had entirely forgotten about Preston Lynch. His rival for nearly three years, he and Lynch had fought bitterly on the pitch, often costing their team victories. It had only been the realisation that the team, and the game itself, was bigger then their petty feuds that had allowed them to put aside their differences. But something like this, James' being named captain over Lynch, was sure to be a reopening of old wounds. A stirring of a pot that had barley been allowed to settle. James braced himself as Lynch noticed the two of them and started heading over. The beginnings of a plan began to form in James' head. He hoped his decision wouldn't create a new rift within the team.

Lynch set his broom carefully on the rack next to James' before he turned and face the pair of them.

'Evening, Potter.' His voice as short and clipped, terse and taut. 'Weasley, why are your trousers purple?'

'Not important,' Fred waved it off with a huff.

'Good holidays, Lynch?' James asked, painfully aware of the awkwardness that had settled over the room.

Lynch shrugged. 'I spent them in Ireland. Practised a week with the National Team in their training camp. My Uncle says he can get me fast-tracked into the developmental squad once I leave Hogwarts.'

'Awesome, sounds exciting.' There was a tentative hint of genuine enthusiasm in James' voice.

'Indeed. Although, it seems I can't even make captain of the House team, over someone who had been kicked off of it, last time I checked.'

Ah, there it was.

'Listen, Lynch – Preston – it wasn't my decision. I didn't even know if I'd be on the team when the term began-'

'And yet, now you're the captain of it.'

The conversation was going nowhere, fast. Time to come out and say it.

'I'd like you to be the Vice-Captain with me.'

Lynch blinked. His eyes immediately darted to where Fred was sitting. Assumptions were that if was James was to make anyone a vice-captain, it would have been him. Fred stopped in his polishing the handle of his broomstick and looked up slowly. James tried to meet his eyes and convey both his apology, and the necessity of his actions, in the hopes that at least some sting would be removed from the deliberate oversight.

'Don't look at me,' Fred shrugged. 'Most mornings, choosing clean underwear is more responsibility than I'm happy with. Vice-Captain would be the last thing I'd want.'

James sagged in relief. Lynch narrowed his eyes, wary that this was some kind of trap. Knowing Fred, it could well be, but James trusted his friend in this, at least, to remain serious.

'Are you giving this to me as an excuse to boss me around even more, Potter?'

'I'm offering it to you, Preston, because you deserve it. Because…' and James paused a moment to swallow his pride. 'I need it. Nobody is a better shot on goal than you, and you organise defensive formations far better than I do. We've got a shot to win it all this year. But not if we're going to fight the whole season through. If you're not going to accept the offer, then I'll… I'll step down. I don't want bad blood between us ruining our shot at the Cup.'

Behind him, James heard Fred overcome by a sudden choking fit. Lynch stood only a few strides away, his arms crossed, studying James intently. The moment hung in the air, it seemed suddenly as if the wind were still and nothing moved between the two boys. James kept his arms at his side, his expression fiercely earnest. His heart hammered against his ribs, but he forced his breathing into calmness, wrestling with the nerves that tried to overwhelm him.

Lynch stepped forward. 'That Captain's badge would look damned good on my collar.' James' heart stuttered. 'But it belongs with a man who is going to do what is right for this team, to make sure we're the ones holding that Cup at the end of the season. To a man willing to sacrifice it for his house. For Gryffindor.'

'For Gryffindor,' James echoed, and he stepped forward to clasp hands with Lynch, the agreement settled.

Lynch nodded curtly to Fred, and then turned to leave, retrieving his broom and striding out onto the pitch, to take to the skies in preparation of the warm-ups that were to come.

It wasn't until Lynch was safely up in the air that James allowed himself to let out the breath he'd been holding.

'Bloody hell. Sorry, Freddy, we both know it should have gone to you.'

'Nonsense,' Fred waved it off. 'I know no such thing. You handled that well, captain. Looks like there's a bit of Gryffindor spirit buried down there under Lynch's ego, after all.'

James nodded, his eyes on Lynch performing a series of advanced aerial acrobatics, the dazzling display prepared just in time for all of the newcomers to bear witness and be awestruck. 'That's what I was counting on.'

The phrase James had oft heard his father use to describe the difficulty of organising the junior Aurors was "herding cats". For his part, James found that when broomsticks were added to the equation, it was more like herding butterflies, as the score or so of energetic Gryffindors could hardly contain themselves from scooting off into the air, warming up, showing off to their friends, or – as was the case for one particularly overeager second year -flying round and round the goal hoops as quickly as possible until they vomited.

It took a good fifteen minutes, and several instances of wishing Lynch would have taken the burden of captaincy from him, before James managed to corral most of them – barring the green-tinged second year who'd wisely decided to call it a night and head back up to the castle.

'Welcome, everybody! It's good to see such a strong turnout. Old faces and new ones, too.' There were more than James had anticipated seeing. A half-dozen Chasers, and a handful of would-be Keepers had come along to try for the vacant positions, and there were one or two brave Beaters looking to steal a position from Fred or Ash Attaway, along with quite a large seventh-year lad who'd amusingly come down to try out as Seeker. 'Before we start, I'd like to introduce you all to your vice-captain, Preston Lynch.'

Lynch stepped forward from the group and gave a casual wave. James could see his eyes sifting through the pack, weighing the merits of each of the candidates before they'd even had a chance to perform.

'We're going to run through a series of warm-up exercises as a team,' James continued. 'So that I can get a handle on how comfortable you all are on a broom, and then we'll break out into position groups and run through some drills and finally, we'll wrap up with a practice match. We've plenty here to make up two even teams.'

The group did as they were bid. James tried to stir a bit of life into them, tried to generate a bit of enthusiasm for what they were doing. He eked out a half-hearted round of applause from a sixth-year girl named Carissa Li, which did little more than earn her a snort of derision from a group of older seventh-years.

It soon became apparent from the team drills that a clear divide existed in the talent pool, between those who seriously had a shot at making the team, and those who appeared to just be along for the ride. There were a few minor spills, a lot of messy turns, and when James had them practicing a co-ordinated manoeuvres drill, many, _many_ collisions. After one such, when he'd had to help a small third-year lad off the field with what seemed to be a mild concussion, James found himself wondering just how Odette managed it. He could practically feel his hairs greying already.

The big lad who'd come for the Seeker position was a bit of a revelation – he was far more nimble and agile than any would have predicted. But Al, with his far superior broom, his recent experience, and his own gritty determination, was still soundly ahead. Likewise, none of the Beaters seemed up to challenging Ash or Fred for their positions on the teams. The current duo were busy flying rings around their would-be teammates, playing keep-away with four Bludgers at once. Tempers were beginning to flare over in their corner, and harsh words were being exchanged. Beaters had always been a funny breed, James mused.

It was with some satisfaction that James noted Bianca Petit was distinguishing herself for the Keeper position. A classmate of his, he was aware she'd tried out and failed to make the team every year so far. She was likeable and diligent, and he'd seen her down on the pitch at various times over the past few years practising on her own, in the hopes of one day making the team.

The Chasers group, on the other hand, posed a more tangled web to unravel. Carissa Li was by far the most engaged and enthusiastic. Her glee was palpable every time she took to the air, and James couldn't help smiling along with her as she laughed and whooped her way through the drills. But she was on the slender side of lithe, and her arm strength was questionable. The three seventh-years who had come along were all adequate fliers, and one of them, Anthony Hardcastle, had an arm on him like James had never seen, an absolute cannon that was almost impossible to save… when he managed to get his shots on target. But it was another from that group, one Genevieve Sweeting that looked to be the most complete prospect.

The only drawback was that she was a bit of a…

'_Bitch,'_ Fred swore as he pulled up next to James. They'd both just watched Gen shoulder Carissa out of the way to get back to the front of the line and have another shot. She was obviously fuming that Bianca had saved her previous attempt.

Lynch peeled away from the group and drifted up to join them. They were hovering a few feet above the action, looking down as the group of prospective Chasers took shots at goal, while the would-be Keepers tried to stop them. The Beaters – less Fred – were engaged in a healthy shouting match down on the ground at midfield, and Al and the big lad were chatting amicably near the sidelines. The sun was going down, and James wanted to try them out in a game situation.

'I like Sweeting,' Lynch said, as she lined up for the shot.

_Come on, Bianca,_ James silently hoped.

'She's got all the tools,' James reluctantly agreed. 'But she's a bit… feisty.'

'Nothing wrong with a bit of mongrel,' Lynch smirked. 'Got to get your hands dirty as a Chaser, you know that.'

James shrugged, and stuck a couple fingers in his mouth to whistle the group together. It just so happened that he did this right as Gen Sweeting took her shot. The piercing sound cut through the gentle chatter of the few students up in the stands, and the shot went high, Bianca didn't even have to try and save it.

'What the _hell,_ Potter?' Gen barked. 'I want another shot. That's not fair, you put me off.'

James just raised his eyebrows and shot Preston Lynch a significant look, but said nothing. He ignored Gen's grumblings altogether as he split the group into two teams, paying no heed when Gen shouldered her way to the front of the pack again to make sure she was chosen first.

James and Preston retired to a stand at the half-way line, to watch the proceedings and evaluate all the players. James put Lynch in charge of rolling on the substitutes to make sure that everyone got some time on the pitch. He whistled once more to begin the match, and released a Snitch which darted off towards the castle and was lost into the grainy light before the Quaffle had even been captured.

Watching the match was an exercise in frustration for James. He called out encouragement where he could, and instruction where he thought it necessary, but more than anything, he longed to be in the thick of it. To feel the wind whipping his hear, tugging the shouts and calls from his ears and stinging his ears and nose with its fresh touch. To feel the collision as he jostled for possession, to loft a perfectly weighted pass or to send the Quaffle sailing through the goal hoops. As it was, he was forced to watch Gen Sweeting refuse to pass the Quaffle to Carissa Li or the other Chaser on her team, a young fourth year boy with a broom that was far too fast for his somewhat meagre ability.

The saving grace was the fact that James had stuck Bianca Petit on the opposing team, and she was proving delightfully adept at blocking Gen's shots.

'Can I get a little _help?'_ Gen roared, after her third consecutive shot was saved. This one was an easy swooping dive to the left goal hoop for Bianca, who restarted play while Gen was still sulking in midfield.

With Gen out of action, the opposition scored easily.

'Oh, you two are so _useless!'_ she roared.

Carissa, finally having had enough, pulled up alongside and drew herself up to her meagre height Gen. 'Well, maybe if you passed a bit more-'

'Oh, shut _up!_ We all know I'm the best flier here, so you can sod off back to your knitting, Li. Everyone knows that _your lot_ are no good at Quidditch anyway.'

_Oh, shit._

James moved to grab his broom and mount up. Out above the pitch, Carissa put a hand to chest, aghast.

'M-my _lot?'_

_Whack!_

Fred had launched a Bludger from above the two arguing girls, and – true to his talent – it had hit Gen Sweeting square in the jaw. She slumped forward on her broom without a sound and started drifting haphazardly towards the ground.

Though, technically, the match was still ongoing, and Fred's move had been legal, Gen's friend Anthony clearly didn't see it that way. He wrestled a Beater's bat off of one of his own team and shot towards Fred, with it raised in one hand.

_Oh, shit. Oh, shit._

James tore off across the field.

Beneath him, the fourth year was a red and gold streak, nearly out of control on his lightning broom. Poor Bianca didn't know whether to try and stop him, or join in the fray.

'I'll gut you, you red-headed freak!' Anthony cried.

'Come and try it,' Fred roared back, reaching for his wand.

'_ENOUGH!'_ James shouted, coming in over the top of both of them. In the background, he noted Preston Lynch helping Gen to her feet on the ground.

'Sod off, Potter,' sneered Anthony.

'Watch it, Hardcastle. This is my practice.'

'Like I give a shit.'

This was all spiralling rapidly out of hand. A far cry from what James had hoped for upon beginning his first practice as captain.

'Get off my pitch, Hardcastle_.'_

A stray Bludger chose that moment to zip through the proceedings, and, seeing an opportunity, Anthony wound up and swung at it, utilising all the strength in that cannon arm that he had been showing off all afternoon. James reacted more on instinct, than anything. He reached out his hand before his face, where the Bludger was streaking towards him, little more than a black blur in his vision. He felt something collide with his hand. Hard. The jarring of the hit sent shockwaves all up his arm, and jolted his shoulder painfully. Pain lanced up his forearm and all the way through his chest. He'd closed his eyes upon impact. Upon reopening, it took him a moment to focus on the Bludger that sat, quivering weakly in his hand, his fingers wrapped around it.

His hand fell to his side, the Bludger still clasped within it. He didn't even know if he could let it go, or if his damaged fingers were seized up around it. He didn't know what damage it had done, other than the fact that the surging onrush of pain made it hard to focus. His entire arm burned. He clenched his teeth so hard he heard a grinding in his jaw, and skewered Anthony Hardcastle with his best level look.

'Off my pitch. _Now.'_

It came out as half a snarl. Anthony, who was looking stunned, shifted his weight awkwardly on his broom.

'He just _caught _it,' whispered one of the Beaters.

'With his _bare hands,'_ replied another.

The awe was evident in their voices. James pushed it angrily aside, along with the impressed looks he was getting from the rest of the team who had gathered around to watch. He jerked his head in the direction of the castle. One last warning to Anthony.

'I'm going to check on Gen,' he mumbled, wheeling about and giving it his best effort at storming off. James didn't breathe out until the pair of them were through the gate together. Their third friend was soon to follow.

'You bloody madman!' Fred cheered. 'James Ironfist!'

He tried to get a chant of 'Ironfist! Ironfist!' going, but there weren't many takers.

'Shut up, you idiots, I'm not a pirate.'

James called an end to the practice after that, and gathered the group at midfield. He'd dropped the Bludger, and it had fallen to the turf, unmoving, evidently as stunned as the rest of his teammates had been by what had taken place. James had lost all feeling in his right hand beyond a sort of burning pain. He was going to have to make a trip to the Hospital Wing to get Madam Petheridge to look at it, no doubt.

He briefly conferred with Preston Lynch. Lynch disagreed with James' decision. James told him to suck it up. _He_ was the captain. Lynch nodded, with a furtive look at James' injured hand. Purple and blue bruising was already beginning to show. The throbbing was becoming unbearable.

'I've made my decision,' James announced to the gathered group. The chatter died down immediately when he spoke. A respectful silence fell across the group, with all eyes on him. 'Rather than have you all waiting a week to find out who's made the team, I'll tell you now and we can get it over with. First training is coming up in three days' time, so be ready for it.'

That really got their attention. A round of shuffling and nervous glances followed. They were practically leaning in towards James in anticipation.

'Albus, Fred, and Ash will all retain their positions alongside myself and Preston. Joining us at Keeper will be Bianca Petit.'

Bianca gasped and blushed as a few of her friends congratulated her. The joy on her face was radiant, and it eased a little bit of the pressure off of James to see her so relieved to achieve something she'd been working towards for the past four years.

'And our new Chaser will be Carissa Li.'

This time, there were a few whispers and grumbles, and Carissa outright gasped in shock, clearly not having expected it. Next to James, Preston crossed his arms and pursed his lips, making his displeasure evident.

'A-are you sure?' Carissa whispered timidly from the front of the group.

'Of course, I am. Easiest decision of the day. You've got poise on a broom, you're comfortable in the air, and nobody showed more effort or enthusiasm.'

Carissa clapped happily, and Bianca rushed up to hug her. The rest of the hopefuls dispersed, some few muttering about James' controversial selection. It was true, Carissa hadn't been the fastest, nor had the biggest arm, nor been the most aggressive, but he'd readily defend his decision to anyone who challenged him.

As the team and new members went to celebrate in the change rooms, James separated himself from the group under the guise of packing up the gear they had been using for training. He levitated the brooms and hoops away a little awkwardly with his left hand, keeping his right clutched close to his chest. Sounds of laughter, and the popping of corks emanated from the Gryffindor lockers. James shouldn't have been surprised that Fred would have a secret stash stored somewhere.

'Need a hand?'

James looked up to see Odette watching him from the shadows beneath the stadium. She was leaning casually up against the wall of the broomstick shed, her arms crossed. In spite of himself and his soured mood, James smiled at seeing her.

'Of _course_ you were spying.'

She shrugged, offering him an innocent face. 'I wasn't the only one. Ava Adams was there with her little clique of Yellowbellies, and Percy Pevensy and his squawking birds were roosting up in the Ravenclaw stand, as well.'

James shook his head. 'You all know each other are doing it, why bother with the hiding and slinking about?'

'Oh, James, you're such a Gryffindor. If one takes away the mask, one is forced to look upon the ugly face that lies behind it. Better we keep things this way, for all involved.'

'And you are the epitome of Slytherin house.'

'I must admit, though, I nearly broke cover when you caught that Bludger with your bare hands.'

'Right. I suppose some backup would have been appreciated.'

'Backup? I meant I was ready to tear the clothes off of you right then and there. That was the manliest thing I've seen since, well… ever.'

Laughing, James shot her a sly smile. 'Might have been a bit of a logistical nightmare, considering we were thirty feet in the air at the time.'

Odette's eyes lit up. '_Oh,_ I've always wanted to try it on a broom!'

'You are insatiable,' James laughed. And then, 'Ow, ow, ow!' as she pounced on him and tried to wrap him up in an embrace.

'Oh, right. Let's get you up to Madam Petheridge. And then down to a certain broom closet on the first floor…'

'You know Petheridge will want to keep me overnight, there's almost certainly broken bones.'

Odette pouted dramatically. 'Oh, you simply can't keep doing this to me, James! I'm about to explode!'

'Cross your legs for another night, then,' James replied, not unkindly, as she fell in step beside him. He received another sullen look for his comment. And then a hurt gaze, and then something salacious coupled with a hand sliding up the back of his shirt…

When he shook his head firmly, Odette went so far as to stamp her foot in frustration and give a loud huff, crossing her arms and fixing her gaze pointedly ahead.

'You made the wrong decision, you know. Li over Gen Sweeting. Gen is _good._ She might have made Gryffindor… passable, this year.'

'Passable? Hah! We'll fly circles around your band of misfits, and you know it. And no, I didn't. Carissa is a damned fair flier, and an accurate shot, as well.'

'If her noodle arm can manage to get the Quaffle through the hoops, that is.'

'I spent two years fighting with Lynch over Quidditch, Odette. There's barely enough room in the changing room for all of us and his ego-'

At this point, Odette was overcome by a sudden coughing fit that sounded suspiciously like, 'And your own.'

'-and so the last thing I need is another drama queen in that locker room. Quidditch skills I can coach. I can't teach the enthusiasm and team spirit Carissa has, that's invaluable.'

Odette gave an indifferent shrug. 'Well, it's your team to butcher. But know this, Li takes her studies very seriously. There's no way she'll come back next year while N.E. are on. If you wanted to win now, you should have taken Gen Sweeting for a one-and-done wonder. All that training you do this year, you're going to have to do all over again when Li leaves you high and dry next season.'

James hadn't considered that at all. A tiny seed of doubt lodged itself in his brain. Had he been to rash in his decision? Too fuelled by emotion on the back of Gen's actions?

'I don't care, I stand by it. You heard what Gen said to Carissa. I won't have that on my team. If we can't even get through a practise without her causing a fuss, we sure as hell won't make it through the whole year.'

Odette sighed again. They'd arrived at the doors to the hospital wing. 'You go on,' she nodded. 'Petheridge still hasn't forgiven me from stealing all her painkillers and knocking them back like Butterbeer in fourth year.'

They parted, and James paused to watch her leave. He'd need some kind of mental fortitude before facing the wrath of Madam Petheridge. No doubt she'd find some way to make him feel even worse than he did upon coming in, berating him about his stupidity and what-not.

The doors swung inwards of their own volition, and the scent of cleansing potions, painkilling tonics and that sterile, scrubbed-bare smell that seemed to come with too many cleaning charms assaulted James. He barely had the chance to glimpse the rows of mostly-empty beds before Madam Petheridge swooped down upon him in a bundle of skirts and admonitions.

'Foolish boy… catching Bludgers… wonder the whole arm's not broken… honestly, what is wrong with you… Gryffindor, of course… head full of Flobberworms…'

James barely had the time to protest as he was bundled across to the nearest bed, shoved firmly down onto the mattress, and had his hand prodded, poked and squeezed in a dozen different, painful ways.

'Wait a minute,' James murmured. 'How did you know what happened?'

'How did I know? How could I _not_ know, is more like it. Half of the school is abuzz. Idiot boy. I've cuffed three students already who tried calling you a legend. _Tsk…_ Look at these bones… they're shattered, not merely broken.'

'I didn't think-'

'Zip it! No more questions. Drink this.'

'What is it?'

'A tonic to help re-knit bones. Not as quick and efficient as my healing magic, but it'll be much easier on the body. And its better for the delicate little bones…. Particularly when you've made such a mess of them. You'll stay here tonight. You'll not leave this bed. The tonic may make you feel a little… woozy, but you should get a good night's sleep out of it.'

James was nodding along obediently as Madam Petheridge spoke.

'Well? What are you waiting for? Drink!'

James hastened to obey. The tonic tasted somewhere in between old socks, and the musty scent that assaulted him when he opened his trunk after leaving it shut all summer. He grimaced, gagged, and cursed, but got through it all. Madam Petheridge watched him with a beady-eyed glare to make sure it was so.

She placed a small magical device down by his bedside that looked a little like a Muggle hot-air balloon. It started inflating and deflating in rhythmically as James watched it.

'This will keep a measure of your breathing and notify me if anything is amiss. Now, sleep, Mister Potter. I suspect you'll need it.'

James lay his head back on the pillow. Come to think of it, he _was _feeling a little tired. And a light-headed sensation was stealing over him quite abruptly. High up above, the few candles that lit the room swam in his vision.

'Woo-oozy,' he mumbled, giggling to himself. What a _funny_ word.

He heard Madam Petheridge _tsk_ beside him as she stood up from her stool, but he was fast asleep before he even heard the sound of her office door closing.

Some time later, James felt his eyes opening. It was dark. Only a handful of candles lit the room, floating up high above, offering just enough light to make out the grainy, grey shapes of beds and furniture in the gloom. The light of the crescent moon offered little, obscured as it was through the windows by thick clouds. James' head was pounding, and the whole room span and swam before him. He blinked furiously, but couldn't clear his vision. His thoughts were slow and foggy. His body responded to his mind as if he were moving through thick soup. His limbs were leaden and unresponsive, his hand lay numb and insensate.

He strained his neck to look up and down the room. He was the sole occupant of the hospital wing this night. The light beneath Madam Petheridge's door was out, which must make the hour late, indeed.

James wondered why he had woken. He could here no noise, and his sleep had been dreamless, and undisturbed. He struggled to listen for any sound beyond the rush of his breathing. His mind trudging through possibilities with a frustrating slowness and a distinct lack of clarity. He could feel himself drifting back to sleep already…

When all of a sudden the lights above him went out. The candles flickered, sputtered, and vanished as one. No, he hadn't simply closed his eyes. It was pitch dark. A pattering rain sounded as each one fell to the floor. He'd _never _heard of that before. Those candles were charmed to float endlessly, and burn forever.

He'd seen something like this before, he knew it. But his sluggish mind refused to make the connection. A sweeping darkness, a wave of failing magic… lights, going out.

Next to his bead, the little balloon started rapidly inflating and deflating, though James' breathing remained slow and calm, methodically stilled by the tonic he had taken, his lungs were as lethargic as the rest of his body.

In fact, his breathing was becoming deeper, longer, slower. His thoughts trailing away into mindless, fuzzy warmth. His pillow was soft, the covers were tucked under his chin, and the sudden failure of the magic in the Hospital Wing was a problem in a far-off land. If only the little breathing monitor would stop making that high pitched whine-

Ah, there. It had shattered. Perfect. James rolled over, and fell instantly back to sleep, the darkness of the room offering up no further obstacle to his slumber.

The next morning when James awoke, his head felt woollen and his eyes grainy, but his hand had healed. And the only indication that his visions of the night might have been more than a dream where the pile of powdery ash that was gathered on the side table to his bed, and the thick, purple-black stain that it left soaked into the grain of the wood.


	8. Impaired Judgement? Not a Chance!

'Welcome, James Potter, to our oasis. Our little piece of paradise.'

James studied the room with his mouth agape. It was large and high-ceilinged. Delicate archways of intricate masonry embraced the cavernous space high overhead. Floor-to-ceiling stained-glass windows overlooked a panoramic view of the lake and the mountains beyond. A large fireplace ran almost the entire length of one wall, though the late summer warmth rendered it dormant this particular evening.

Grandiose though it was, there was a definite sense of wear. A thin coating of grime concealed something of the lustre of the place. The archways were chipped and bore spiderwebbing cracks that spoke to magic, rather than engineering holding them upright. The ceiling had once been painted in a fresco, but was now faded and peeling and largely indistinguishable. Multiple panes of glass were shattered, covered over with greying, warped boards. And the flagstones underfoot were coated in a thin film of sticky grease that caught James' feet unsettlingly every time he took a step.

Not that any of this had stopped the older students from all of the houses banding together in secret and turning the disused room into a space that couldn't be described as anything other than a party house. Couches and comfortable seating crowded one end of the room. Old, unused sofas and faded plush pouffes, with varying assortments of rips and tears and dubious, dark stains. Even the disused fireplace was filled with cushions, and decorated with a pair of sprawling Hufflepuffs. Low tables were crowded with bottles of myriad colours – mostly full of dark, bubbling liquids. Banners and streamers hung haphazardly from the archways above, all the house emblems coming together in a chaotic riot of colours and various wildlife.

And it was currently packed with a host of students, fifth year and up.

'This room is amazing,' James breathed. 'How come I've never heard of it before?'

'Because it's supposed to be a secret,' Odette replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 'The last thing we want is a bunch of snot-nosed fourth-years running around here and getting underfoot.'

'Hey- I was a fourth-year last year.'

'And I've made you a man since then, James Potter. Now, come. Let's get a drink.'

It really was amazing what the houses could do when the co-operated. No amount of coaxing and cajoling from the professors could manage it, but dangle a bit of alcohol and the intrigue of a shared secret and the teamwork was mind-blowing.

There must have been close to a hundred students packed in to the space, lounging on the sofas, sharing private conversations in secluded corners, laughing uproariously as the drink added humour to some joke or other, and generally having a good time, whilst upholding the greatest Hogwarts secret James had ever discovered. He'd considered himself something of an aficionado when it came to secret passages and unused classrooms, but this was on a whole new level. It begged the question: What _else_ was out there, still left to be uncovered?

James helped himself to a butterbeer from a nearby table. Odette gave him a long-suffering look before pouring herself something rich and dark and filled with pink bubbles from the next table over.

'So, this is just free to help yourself?' James asked, admiring the veritable wealth of intoxicants at their disposal.

'There's a tax. All the older students pay into a fund. The Lenders manage it. About time they did something useful. They take a cut that amounts to daylight robbery, but such is the price of debauchery.'

And with that, Odette tipped back her glass and downed the contents in one go. An uncomfortable expression stole across her face for a moment, and nightmares raced through James' mind of poisons or potions, but she held up a steadying finger, gave a gigantic hiccup, and giggled in a most girlish and rather un-Odette-like fashion as a stream of pink bubbles shot out both of her ears.

'Merlin's jockstrap,' she gasped. 'But I do so love the headrush this stuff gives you.' As if to emphasise her point, she took a staggering step forwards, and had to clutch to the back of a nearby sofa to keep upright, a dreamy expression on her face.

James took a tentative sip of his butterbeer. As he gazed around the room, he noticed that there were a few of the older students that were in a far worse state than had overcome Odette. He checked his watch, it was barely past curfew. He remembered some of the wilder Gryffindor house parties he'd attended, usually post Quidditch matches. This gathering was shaping up to put all of them to shame.

Odette helped herself to another butterbeer and took James' hand, leading him into the room properly. They wove their way together through the maze of bodies, waves of conversation lapping at them and gone again as they passed by. There was bragging, there was joking, and there was no shortage of hearts being spilled, if the amount of "I love you" exclamations was anything to go by. James made sure to keep an eye on what he was drinking.

The lighting for the room came from up above them, and dozens of tiny spheres, glowing with a soft, warm light winked in and out of existence. It leant adequate light to the room while also managing to capture a close, personal, almost conspiratorial tone to the night-time gathering.

Their twisting path ended as Odette spied some friends. Without warning, she pulled James over to a sofa and introduced him to Ciara Beaumont and Genie Montague. Ciara was short and slim and wore a gleaming silver Prefect's badge affixed to her dark green dress. Apparently, it afforded her extra drinks and other special privileges, she told James with a wink. Genie, with her startling green eyes and intricate blonde braids, was – even to James' biased eye – breathtakingly gorgeous, although she did spend the majority of their introduction struggling to unscrew the top off of a butterbeer bottle before gasping with sudden realisation that she had been trying to turn it the wrong way. Odette and Ciara gave identical knowing eyerolls that told James this might not be the first time that had happened.

No sooner had James finished perching himself on the arm of the sofa the friends occupied, than Ciara had drawn the three girls in to some piece of gossip that had them all listening fervently, heads crowded together over what James assumed was some scandalous secret. James allowed his mind to wander, and contented himself with people-watching for the moment, feeling the comfortable, subtle contact of Odette's hand resting upon his knee.

He studied the seething, sweaty organism that was the product of the debauchery all around him. As the night wore on, he knew, things would only trend downhill. It had only been some five hours since their Friday classes finished, but judging by the comatose bodies draped over some of the sofas, it appeared a few of the more eager among them had put every minute of that time to good use. The ebb and flow of the students moved around them, always shifting. A slow, steady process like the flow of a viscous mud, interspersed by flashes of light as an earring caught a reflection, or a sequined dress came alive.

Since his arrival, somebody had started up some music, and the deep, heavy bass thudded rhythmically, deep in James chest. A heartbeat to join them all together, in the way it reached right into their ribcages, through to their very core. Individual, and yet a sensation shared by all.

'What are you thinking of, dearest James?'

Odette's voice yanked James back to the present. Her tone held a giddy edge. A stream of pink bubbles attested to the fact that she'd found herself another glass of the beverage James had overheard to be called Windrush Wine.

'Chests,' James replied, somewhat distractedly.

'Oh, _do_ tell,' Odette purred invitingly. From his position up on the arm of the sofa, James was momentarily afforded a glimpse down into a place of shadowed curves and salacious portent as she thrust out her own suggestively. The act punched all thought of witty reply clean from James' mind.

'Ooh, I love this game!' Genie piped up, shattering the moment as she made to unfasten one of the straps to her dress.

'_No!'_ Odette and Ciara roared together, lunging to their friend as one. Again, it struck James as an act they were practiced in.

'Not _that_ game, Genie,' Ciara continued patiently.

'Oh. Oh well,' Genie shrugged, as if she'd been genuinely disappointed.

'But, who do you think _does, _you know, have the best,' Ciara leaned in once more, dragging the three girls in to another round of gossip.

For his part, James decided that this was a conversation he was destined to lose should he provide any input whatsoever, so he sagely stayed quiet, and focused instead on finishing the last of his butterbeer, and scouting around for another.

Mercifully, though, Odette's friends didn't stay much longer, Genie eventually begging Ciara to take her for a dance. When Odette stood up behind them, James' heart skipped a little beat. He'd not had _nearly_ enough Butterbeer to countenance the thought of dancing.

'Relax, James. I'm just going to find us some more drinks,' Odette laughed, seeing the look on his face.

She disappeared, and left James alone on the couch. A state of existence that didn't last for long at all.

'James Potter! How luv-er-lee to see you! Congratulay-shins on being Quidditch captain – isn't it the best-est?'

'H-hey, Ava, thanks. Nice to see you.'

Ava Adams? _The _Ava Adams, Hufflepuff Chaser extraordinaire, the nicest, bubbliest, friendliest, most rule-abiding-est person James knew, was a mess. Lipstick smeared, hair frayed, eyes unfocused. She was holding a glass of some dark, amber liquid askance, and it was steadily trickling out over the lip.

'Lissssten James, I need to talk to you,' she slurred. 'But issa secret, okay?'

James eyed her suspiciously.

'_Shhhh,_ don't say nnnothing.'

He hadn't.

'Juss meet me in the broom closet outside this room. Second door on the right. In… an hour. I'm not wearing a watch! Hee!'

James' look went from standoffish to scandalised in about two seconds flat. But he was saved the awkwardness of a reply by Odette materialising at his elbow and cursing at Ava.

'Sod off, Adams!' Odette snarled. 'Go drink your problems away somewhere else.

Ava giggled, hiccupped, gave a rather impressive burp, and then shot James a parting wink. She pressed a finger vaguely near her lips and hissed a final '_Shhhh,'_ as she staggered off into the crowds.

'What was _that_ all about?' James asked, accepting two bottles of some dark butterbeer variant and a large glass of Windrush Wine from Odette.

'Meet the secret Ava Adams,' Odette replied with obvious glee. She slid into a seat on the sofa. Despite the fact that they had the whole thing to themselves, she practically ended up on James' lap. 'A couple of times a year, usually before the Quidditch season starts, she gets like this. Absolutely out of control. There must be something she's covering up, but not even Ciara the Gossip Queen has managed to figure it out. Cutting someone else's lunch though… that's not usually her game. Normally she'll drink herself into oblivion in peace. Strange…'

James cast a glance at where Ava had disappeared. He checked his watch. There had been a definite sense of urgency, even through all of the… haze. What could be so important? Like Odette, James had his doubts it had been a purely social call.

But it was forced from James' mind as Odette bade him drink. The Windrush Wine lived up to its name, giving James a light-headed, reeling sensation that was actually rather exhilarating. Odette nearly fell off the couch laughing when he tried to stand while the bubbles still streamed from his ears and fell flat on his face into the cushioned arm of the sofa.

They settled in together, and talked quietly as the night wore on. It wasn't the ostentatious flirtation that made up their usual jab-and-riposte, but an earnest, honest conversation that was all the more pleasurable for its rarity. Ava's deadline came and went, neither recalled or acknowledge by the pair so enraptured with one another. Some time much later, when their words came more ponderously, and their minds were somewhat more clouded, Odette sighed deeply, and rested her head on James' shoulder.

'Do you ever feel… bigger than all of this, James?'

'I've had the same pair of jocks for three years. I've hardly grown outwards at all.'

She slapped him.

'Gross. And you know what I mean. Take Ciara, she's bright enough, and the professors love her. But her single biggest concern most days is who's been caught snogging behind greenhouse three. And Genie, most days I can't decide if I'm jealous or turned on by how good looking she is, but she struggles with which way to point a wand, let alone studying for N.E. next year. Doesn't it all just seem so… small?'

'And what is in store, then, for the great Odette Mansfield? What glories and triumphs await her?'

'Don't mock, James.'

'Fine, I'm serious. What _is _in your future?'

'Would that I'd paid attention in Divination. I'm not sure what it is, James, but I hope it's something far away from here. Quidditch, maybe. I know the French teams recruit young. But the gossip will be about me, James, not by me. _I_ will be the one everybody is talking about.'

James smiled. 'It was ever thus,' he intoned dramatically.

'If you're just going to poke fun-'

'You're right, I'm sorry.'

And James thought about what Odette had said. Really thought about it. Though holding to a steady stream of consciousness left him feeling like a twig floating downriver, tossed this way and that, unable to maintain a course. James needed more practice at this drinking thing.

He'd been where Odette so desired to be. Almost on a yearly basis, he was the one around whom so much gravitated. It was only a small conceit to say his decisions moved worlds – those of his friends, at the very least. He thought back to hiding in his home last year, locked away following their escape from the Department of Mysteries, and ready for the Ministry to blast down his door at any moment. Racked with fear and guilt that they might do the same to all of his friends. He remembered the hurts his friends had suffered when they'd fought the Atlanteans – at his behest, no less. About Rain's battered and bruised body laying prone on a steel stretcher as a mysterious witch funnelled dark power into her supine form-

'James?'

He realised he'd been staring at nothing. He shook his head slowly.

'You don't want that, Odette. It's more trouble than it's worth. The more influence your decisions hold, the more people try and force you to change them. Have you ever seen a pack of dogs fight over a dead animal? It's not pretty, but that's what it feels like. A dozen different people, a dozen directions. Each one pulling as hard as the others. Sooner or later, something's got to give, and it's not usually the dogs.'

'I'm no stranger to people trying to make me do things,' Odette bristled.

James held his hands up defensively. He forgot one was still holding a butterbeer, and managed to spill a little onto Odette's lap. He laughed and leaned forwards, opening his mouth with a witticism ready-

'Don't even think about it,' Odette said. 'Serious conversation.'

'_Fine._ I just don't think it's something to reach for before you're ready. You'll miss the time when you were a nobody.'

'When I was seven, James, my father told me I would never play Quidditch. He told me it was a sport for boys, and that as much as he'd wished for a son, he had me instead, and he'd not see me flying around with the rest of the boys in our street. He confiscated the broom that Mother had got me for Christmas, and that was the end of it. By the time he left us, when I was ten, I was flying circles around every girl and boy in my street, and he knew nothing about it. I thought about giving it up, after that. There was no longer anyone to prove wrong. But I realised that I'd found something that I loved. Something that made me truly happy. And in a weird, twisted way, it was all thanks to him. I'd never have tried so hard had he not forbade me from doing it.

'It's a strange feeling, to find so much joy, and yet be so angry about it all at once. But I do what I do for _me,_ James. Not for anyone else. And that'll never change.'

James nodded. The gravity of what Odette had divulged was not lost on him. She had never spoken about her private life so openly before, let alone any troubles she'd had when she was younger. Even through the butterbeer-stained lens, he knew there was portent in this moment. He chose and discarded several replies, before he softly spoke. He raised his bottle in a toast.

'Onwards, then. To fame together. And may I always be at your side to keep the dogs at bay.'

Odette clinked her glass softly against the bottle. Her reply was a whisper. 'Careful, now, James. When you say things like that, you hold my heart in your hands. It's a precious thing.'

The warmth of the tender exchanged stayed with the pair of them well into the night, though the mood became considerably more light and cheery from that point on. Helped in no small part by the copious amounts of drink Odette insisted that they consume. One of James' last coherent thoughts of the night – and this was some time well past midnight – was that he felt, judging by Odette's reactions, that he'd passed some kind of test.

And after his sixth glass of Windrush Wine and his don't-even-want-to-know'th bottle of butterbeer, when Odette grabbed him by the hand and they slipped together from the party, his suspicions were all but confirmed.

Their laughter and slurred conversation preceded them up the hall. A trail of high-heeled shoes, socks, and other items of clothing was left littered in their wake, and they tumbled in through the first unlocked door they found, James at least having the sense to slam it shut behind them and try for a hasty _Colloportus._ He was practically positive it hadn't worked.

Some hours later, as a false dawn greyed the clouds, and the first of the birds began to sing, Odette burst from the door and fell to her knees in the corridor. James, flushed and tousled and shirtless, followed behind.

'Good God,' Odette gasped. 'I don't think I can feel me legs.' James watched as she staggered off down the corridor. He'd been feeling decidedly… energetic after all of that Windrush Wine. He checked his watch as Odette turned from view and made her way down the staircase, leaning heavily on the bannister for support. If he hurried, he'd manage to get to the top of the Gryffindor tower just in time to watch the sunrise.

* * *

'Kill me. Please, end it all.'

It was ten o'clock the following morning. James lay upon a pile of cushions in an unused classroom on the fifth floor. Sunlight poured in through the great, arched windows, searing his eyes with its aggressive brilliance. Earlier in the week, he'd foolishly committed to helping Clip work on his Blasting Hexes, and the noise was a knife through James' skull every single time.

'I wish Cassie were here,' Fred mused. 'She would blast you with such a lecture right now…'

'Oh, Cassie does give the _best _lectures,' Cat chimed in.

'Her lecturing face is gorgeous,' Clip added unhelpfully.

James rolled over and flung a pillow in their general direction. No, that was worse. Now the sun was in his face.

His head pounded. His throat was dry and raspy no matter how much he drank, and there was a strange, unsettling feeling that his skull was empty, and the light breeze that permeated the room was whistling clean through between his ears. Perhaps _this_ was why it was called Windrush Wine, after all. He was certain that he'd never before been so miserable.

'I hate you all,' he mumbled into a cushion, as if they hadn't guessed the sentiment already.

'Serves you right for buggering off to a party and not bringing any of us,' Fred pointed out.

'_Confringo!'_ Clip cried.

_Crash! _Went the glass jug he was targeting.

'Ugh,' groaned James.

'Oh, you're getting better!' Cat cried, waving her wand and uttering a _Reparo _to mend the damage.

It was no use. James was _not _going to get any rest, and he _had_ sort of promised Clip he'd help him out. He rolled up into a sitting position, informing the entire room he was doing so with a series of dramatic groans and grunts.

'It lives!' Fred cried in mock-alarm.

James offered him a particularly heartfelt two-fingered salute, as he shuffled by to where Clip stood.

'Show us what you've got, Clip,' James mumbled. He kept one hand out to steady himself against the wall. He hadn't entirely regained full use of his legs yet, and the room seemed to have acquired a nasty habit of periodically tilting to one side, which was playing havoc with his sense of balance.

Clip lined up the spell again. '_Confringo!'_ The glass jug of water shattered, sending an array of shards skittering about the room. Cat swooped in once more and fixed up the damage.

'Not bad. Let's try on that table with the wobbly leg. Watch me. _Confringo!'_

The table splintered with the loudest _crack_ yet. James winced, but his work was nothing if not effective. It had been cleaved in two, both halves little more than a pile of splintered mess.

'I'm not so good at repairing tables.' Cat chose this moment to tell them, and set about with a few more complicated spells, her tongue sticking out between her teeth.

'I'm not sure I'm ready for that yet,' Clip said, eyeing the table uncertainly.

'Let's give it a try. The homework was to link a Banishing Charm and a Blasting Hex. So you can explode something in a certain location. I think Professor Meadows will have us using something a bit smaller, but if you can banish a table, you can definitely banish whatever it is that she chooses.'

'I'm not sure I follow that logic.'

'Don't need to, just try.'

Cat had managed to repair the table, except now the leg wasn't wobbly at all. Clip screwed up his face. '_Confringo!'_

The table jumped, as if it had been kicked. There was a sound as if something heavy had been dropped upon it, but no visible damage befell it. Aside from the fact that, when tested, the leg appeared to be wobbly again.

'Oh,' Cat sulked.

'See,' Clip sighed. 'I'm useless.' His frustration was evident.

'Nonsense,' James assured him. 'You're just too tentative. Wandwork is a large part of spellcasting. Clean lines and purposeful movements with your wand is half the work. Your finishing flourish has no edge. It's as if you're _asking_ the table to break for you, rather than ordering it. Give it a little more purpose. Like this. _Confringo!'_

Cat sighed heavily, as the table split asunder. She bent down to pick up the pieces as Clip readied his stance. James adjusted his feet a little, and pushed Clip's shoulders back a fraction. It was more a dueller's stance than anything, but this was a spell for duelling, he figured it fit.

Clip tried again, but this time, he over-flourished, and his spell went awry. It struck the table in the dodgy leg, knocking it askew but achieving little more.

Cat threw up her arms in despair. 'I'd _just_ straightened that.'

'Think of the wand movement as one fluid motion, not a series of smaller jerks and jabs. It should all flow together. Diagonally left, an upright "S", and then _flourish_.'

Clip tried again. With no appreciable improvement. James could see, in the set of his shoulders, and his downcast gaze, that the failure was really getting to him. They switched to the Banishing Charm component of the combination. Clip had always been slightly more proficient at Charms that the other branches of wanded magic.

They used the table once more to practice on. As James pushed it all around the room with his charms, Cat realised that it was the _floor_ that was uneven, not the table. She abandoned their cause entirely and started charming the grout and tiles into a more level configuration. Apparently she'd also spent some time erecting magical masonry over the holidays, and was quite proficient at it. At least, she was, when Fred wasn't amusing himself by Transfiguring the grout to water, or shooting her in the back with Unbalancing Hexes causing her to re-make everything on a drunken lean.

Though James tried everything he could to help Clip, their progress by the end of their session was minimal. Clip could crack the legs of the table one by one (much to Cat's annoyance), and he could make it sort of judder and shiver when he hit it with a Banishing Charm, but there was no hope at all of joining the two spells together as they'd been tasked with.

There was a bit of an air of disappointment hanging over the group when they finally departed for a late lunch. They scrambled up the incline Cat had constructed towards the door, and made their way down towards the kitchens in sullen silence. Without the need to focus on helping Clip to distract him, James' head started pounding once more.

'I'm going to find Odette,' he grumbled to the group. 'And find whatever tonic or potion she uses to make her so bright and chirpy all the time. This is a bloody nightmare.'

Clip thanked him again, though there wasn't much heart in it, and James split off from the group. He was building up quite the head of steam as he descended the castle, picking a few choice words to have with Odette about not warning him just how potent that Windrush Wine was…

'Where are you marching off to in such a hurry?' His huff was interrupted by Professor Longbottom. He stood square in the middle of the corridor with his arms folded. He turned a stern and slightly suspicious countenance upon James.

'I'm on my way to exact vengeance with righteous fury,' James replied, deliberately obtuse.

'Like hell you are. You're coming with me. Remember that… _training_ you were doing with Zoe Meadows and I last year? Well I've just decided we're going to get back on that particular horse. The way things are shaping up around here, I've a feeling you'll need it before year's end. I hope your head's in good shape, boy, because you'll have a headache by the time we're done with you.'

James groaned audibly, and could do nothing else but fall into step behind Professor Longbottom, his feet dragging along the carpeted corridor as if he were engaged in a death-march.


	9. Body Blows

'She fucking _what?!'_

'Mister Potter! Five points from Gryffindor, and I'll have you strung up on the Whomping Willow by your jock strap and wave you around like a bloody flag if I hear you speak like that in my lesson again.'

'Yes, Professor Meadows. Sorry, Professor Meadows.'

James turned back to Tristan and continued in a whisper.

'She fucking _what?'_

Tristan eyed Professor Meadows sheepishly before continuing. 'Kicked me off the team. Monday morning. Cornered me in the common room and told me it was better for all of us. I'd be _too busy _with my Prefect duties anyway, or some such nonsense. Did it in front of the whole bloody house, too.'

James was furious. How _dare_ she? He was of a mind to march out of class and track down Ava Adams that minute, to bail her up for the travesty.

'But you've a match against Slytherin this weekend. You were half the reason the team won the Cup last year – as much as it pains me to say it.'

'I know, mate. I know. But she's the captain. Her word is law.'

'That bi-_nnnggh!'_

James was cut off, as his tongue suddenly leapt up and sealed itself to the roof of his mouth. He couldn't speak, only cough and gurgle pathetically as Professor Meadows bore down on him with murder in her pale blue eyes. Even her uneven step-_thump_ gait seemed menacing.

James spent the rest of the lesson facing the corner in the back of the room, his tongue sealed fast to the roof of his mouth, and a cushion balanced on his head. He'd been given vague but terrifying threats of what might happen should he let it fall. This change of circumstance somewhat curtailed the remainder of his conversation with Tristan, but the moment the lesson was over – and the fifth years had been set free, laden with three feet of parchment on the topic of the distinction between Hexes and Jinxes for homework – he sought his friend out in the corridor.

'So what's all of this about, then?' James wasted no time mincing words. He'd gestured the others onwards, whilst he and Tristan held private council within a small enclave adjoining the third-floor corridor. The suit of armour who called the little niche home was none-too-pleased, and kept rustling and clinking irritably in a show of metalliferous displeasure.

'I honestly don't know,' Tristan despaired, throwing up his hands. 'One minute, she's praising me in practice for chasing some Slytherin spies out of the stands with a well-placed Bludger, and the next, this. Gone. It was completely out of the blue.'

'But that's- She can't just do that,' James sputtered, his outrage forcing his words to trip over themselves on their way out. 'It isn't _fair.'_

'Mate, she's captain,' Tristan shrugged wistfully. 'She can do whatever she wants.'

'What about help from your head of house?'

'Professor Bolt? I don't even think he knows we exist, most of the time. He's read one too many runes the wrong way round, if you catch my drift. Besides, he doesn't care a whit for Quidditch.'

'Is there anyone in your house that can help?'

Tristan broke eye contact, glancing down at his feet for a moment in clear discomfort. 'You're barking up the wrong tree there, James. Most of my house hates me. Remember that big lug who came to get me for prefect duties on the train? We had a particularly unpleasant conversation about just how I was going to behave myself this year, and how they could keep a better eye on me as a prefect, that my actions would be much more closely scrutinised, by the professors as well as the house.'

James listened, aghast. He gripped the strap of his bag so tightly that the leather threatened to tear. 'We can make them pay for that,' he growled.

'Don't, James. Honestly. Let me deal with this one. You won't win, and you'll only make things worse for me in the meantime. There's a group… they call themselves the Council. Seventh years, who make sure everyone within the house is following house rules. Working hard, keeping out of trouble, all of that. They don't like our little… adventures, and run-ins with the other students. They say it's not in the spirit of Hufflepuff house.'

'You mean like punching Caspar Helstrom in the face?'

'A strong right cross isn't the most Hufflepuff of gestures, if we're being honest.'

'Do you think Ava is one of them? This Council?'

'I'm not sure. Usually they're seventh years. They try and keep their identities a secret. Maybe they've let her join, she is a pretty big deal, and a Hufflepuff Golden Girl, to boot.'

'I'm going to talk to her,' James said suddenly. He checked his watch. He could probably catch her before she headed down to Quidditch practice after class.

'If I tell you not to, will it stop you?'

'Not a chance.'

'Well, then. At least leave me out of it, if you can. I've enough problems at the moment.'

'You can't just let them push you around and get away with it.'

'I'm not. I won't. I just need some time to think. Remember, I'm a prefect now, I can't just head on in there and knock some heads together. I'll lose more than just house points.'

An unenviable situation, indeed. James had never expected to be made prefect, and hearing what Tristan had to say, he was glad he'd never been given the extra responsibility.

'I'll tell you how it goes,' James said as a farewell, striding purposefully back out into the corridor and down towards a point where he could head Ava off before she made it out onto the pitch.

He fumed as he stalked through the corridors, skewering passers-by with dark looks and glares sufficient to keep the path ahead well clear. Hufflepuffs, of all people, engaging in such cloak-and-dagger, behind-the-back savagery was unthinkable. Slytherins, perhaps. But, out of all the other houses…

James admitted, albeit painfully, to some discomfort at seeing the most recent crop of Gryffindor first-years, and how timid and flighty a bunch that they were. It irked him somewhat that they seemed to be the antithesis of Gryffindor values. But it had never crossed his mind that he would physically _threaten_ them about being more _brave_.

And no small part of his ire stemmed from the fact that This Hufflepuff Council clearly thought _him_ the catalyst. That somehow, what he did – which, really, was little more than protecting his friends – was un-Hufflepuff. Did they not see the irony in that? So what if they got their hands a little dirty from time to time. Nobody else was going to do it for them. If there was anything James had learned in his time at Hogwarts to date, it was that if he wanted to have any impact on the world around him, he would have to get his own hands dirty in the shaping of it. His own bared knuckles, if he had to. For nobody else would step in to do it for him. Nobody else would ever hold his interests to heart as dearly as he could.

He'd worked himself up into quite a rage by the time Ava Adams appeared in the Entrance Hall. She was dressed in her Quidditch outfit, ready for a practice, and waved cheerily towards James as she noted his presence. There was a moment of confusion that flashed across her face as she read James' expression, and then he was upon her, stepping up into her personal space close enough that he could smell the mint on her breath and count the freckles crowding her nose.

'What the _hell_ are you playing at?' he snarled, holding her gaze with the ferocity of his own. 'Tristan is one of the best players on your team. If you think you can just kick him off because-'

James found himself cut off as Ava's hand shot up and grabbed the front of his shirt. He sought to break her grip, but she held fast, marching him across the Entrance Hall to a shadowy spot beneath the Grand Staircase. If people had been starting to stare at his outburst, now they were outright ogling the couple, as it was Ava's turn to hold James silent with her own glare.

'I don't know what you think you've heard, or who you've been talking to, James, but you need to _stay out_ of this.'

Though their setting was more private, it still didn't stop any onlookers from helping themselves to a good stare into the gloom beneath the staircase, or even a few more bold students leaning over the railings above them to get a closer look. Ava's defence of what James saw as an indefensible act rankled him yet further.

'And _you_ need to put Tristan back on the team. Whatever you think you're doing. Whatever Hufflepuff _values_ you and that _Council_ think you're preserving, you're wrong. And you're stupider than I thought.'

'You'd better watch what you're saying, James. I mean it.'

'Threats, Ava, really? From the local house drunkard? Or can you not even recall? Imagine if _that_ little secret got out.'

James knew he'd shot low with that comment, but it didn't bother him. He was too fired up, too furious about it all to have a hope of reigning in his thoughts. Ava gave him a look that would have frozen his blood, had it not been set afire so by his rage.

'I don't know what you're talking about,' she said icily.

'You're pathetic,' James spat, and made to leave. But Ava pushed past him first, shouldering her way out of their no-longer-private meeting place and bolting from the Entrance Hall, her head down, avoiding the dozen or so stares that chased her from the room.

It was a long few moments before James realised that, upon her departure, she'd pushed something into his hand. His balled fist clutched it tightly, creasing the delicate parchment on which it was wrote. His heart raced and a dozen thoughts and speculations rushed through his mind. He chased away the last few straggling onlookers with a final threatening glower, and when he was alone once more, he hurried to unfold it.

_Trophy room. Midnight. Come alone, we need to talk. _

She'd signed it with a little sunburst in blue ink. It was too bright a touch to an otherwise-ominous letter to have been written by anyone but Ava Adams – well, the cheery, bubbly Ava Adams James had _thought_ he knew, at least.

He pondered the note all through dinner, and begged off for an early night when his friends set up in the library to begin an evening of study and – if Fred was to be involved – likely some minor pyromania.

He shut himself away in his bed early, prepared some clothes for walking the hall at night, and set an alarm to be woken a little before twelve. Thoughts of conspiracy accompanied him down into the dark recesses of his eventual sleep.

* * *

Tristan Macmillan slept fitfully that night. He was disturbed by endless repetitions of textbooks and wand movements. Of Cassandra Featherstone's short, clipped voice telling him to _focus,_ or Fred's bored drawl speculating on what item at their table might be the most readily combustible. He was hounded by wand movements and incantations. By Spell Linkages and Runic Translations. By Arithmantic semantics and everything in between. It was the relentless monotony of his OWL-driven year thus far.

And always in these dreams, these half-memories, something lurked in the background. Something dark and formless and foreboding. A shadow where one oughtn't to be. A ray of sunlight that just wasn't there, an opened door revealing only blackness. A hand reaching forth to clutch his shirt…

Tristan yelled as he found himself shaken awake. He looked down to see his singlet bunched in the fist of the one who held him, pinning him down into the mattress. The rough, sharp feeling of a wand pressed into his throat snagged every breath he drew, and grazed against the soft, exposed skin.

Behind his attacker, several other shapes loomed, every bit as dark an ominous as they had been in his dreams.

'Good evening, sleepyhead,' his attacker growled.

Someone had lit a _Lumos _spell, and turned it directly into Tristan's eyes. It made so that his sleep-addled vision was unable to determine anything beyond vague shapes and distorted voices of those who crowded around him. He didn't even bother trying to shout for help, he knew they would have put up Charms to prevent it.

'Aren't you a big boy, attacking a man in bed, with… how many friends have you got there, six?'

'Four, and shut it, Macmillan. I'm doing the talking.'

So there were five, then. Five Council members. Tristan had no doubt that that was who they were – though their true identity remained a secret. It was scant little to go on, but, at least, it was a start.

'You must be real brave. It's a wonder you lot weren't put in Gryffindor- _eck-!'_

The wand jabbed painfully into his throat, cutting off his sentence as well as his breath. An animal panic stirred in his gut as he battled for air.

Finally, the attacker relented, and Tristan gasped in great lungfuls. That seemed to make the whole group chuckle. Distorted by magic though their voices were, there were at least two females distinguishable among them. Good. More information to store away.

'You got Potter involved,' growled the figure, only inches from Tristan's face. A hot waft of spicy Firewhiskey-riddled breath washed over Tristan. So the courage was borrowed, it seemed.

'I didn't. I-'

The pressure came on again, the wand at his throat.

'Don't lie to us, Macmillan. We _know._'

When he could breathe again, Tristan spoke. 'He was going to find out eventually. And I asked him not to interfere. I told him I don't want trouble.'

'_Wrong answer.'_

Tristan found himself forced backwards into the mattress, and once again struggling for breath. His wand sat just out of reach on his bedside table. It may as well have been a mile away.

'I can't- compel him- to stop.' Tristan struggled to force the words out. The corners of his vision were wavering. The harshness of the _Lumos_ light was becoming greyed at the edges.

'You're right,' sneered his attacker. 'But _we_ can. And we can be quite… persuasive. Take just now, for example, when we _persuaded_ your dear Quidditch friend to tell us she'd agreed to meet Potter in secret, this very night. Needless to say, she won't be able to make the rendezvous, but we've managed to arrange something of a welcoming party, to ensure he doesn't feel like he's been stood up.'

Tristan's efforts to free himself were fuelled with renewed vigour, but he was held fast in an iron grip. His fear for James was allayed not at all by the entire group's cold laughter.

'Bastards,' Tristan ground out between wheezing breaths. 'I'll- get you all.'

Laughter again, and the shadowy visage of his attacker receded. Others swooped in, grabbing him by the arms and legs, pinning him mercilessly to the bed. At least he could breathe, this time.

'Five minutes,' the main voice spoke, from the foot of Tristan's bed. And nothing visible. I don't want people asking questions.'

Tristan's momentary confusion as to the meaning of that statement was dispelled as a pillow was forced over his head, and vicious blows started raining in all over his exposed body.

* * *

James had learned many things in his four-and-a-bit years of magical education. He could cast Charms and brew potions. He could throw Hexes and Jinxes with the best of them. He was even passing decent at Transfiguration. But one of the things he was most proud of learning, was the layout of Hogwarts castle. He thought it likely that no one person could ever truly master such knowledge – the magic that the castle was founded on seemed to have inherited some of the playful nature of its inhabitants over the centuries, and thus continued to throw up puzzles and confusions on a semi-regular basis. But equally, James was sure, there were few that currently resided in these halls who knew them better than he. Servant's passages and disused corridors, secret doors and false tapestries. Which statues to tap with his wand that would open on command. Which portraits would swing forward under a bit of coaxing or a secret passphrase. The network of slides that connected Gryffindor tower with the basement corridor. Supposedly for when Godric had desperately wanted a snack.

James knew them all. Or, at least, most of them. More than sufficient to ghost through the passages of a sleepy Hogwarts castle at midnight unseen, slipping in and out of the well-worn corridors as little more than the flicker of a shadow. He grinned as he phased in and out of sight, trusting to the blackness of night to enshroud his passing. Luck to the patrollers this night, to try and catch him thus. With their vision soured by _Lumos_ spells, their creativity hobbled by regular and predictable patterns. They had not a chance! Though the thrill of such a game lent James' slinking an exhilarating edge. He'd done what he could to exacerbate this, to even the odds a little in the favour of those he eluded. He'd left his Cloak tucked safely in the bottom of his trunk. He wandered the corridors boldly. After all, there was little to fear for one as skilled as he.

The Trophy Room itself was silent when James entered. He checked his watch. A few minutes early. He contented himself by passing the time studying the row upon row of silverware that lined the walls, and admiring the portraits of past heads of school that were dozing quietly in their frames.

The great glass cabinets were full to the point of being cluttered. They crowded every wall, save for the one lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed the pale, tentative light of the moon to stream in and glint off polished metal and gleaming glass. There were sections for Special Services to the School – here he found multiple bearing the name of his father. He lingered long in the Quidditch section, seeking out both his father and grandfather among the honoured. He was in the process of counting how many Quidditch Cups each house had won when he heard footsteps approaching from the corridor that led from the front entrance. They were loud and confident. Overly so.

_Be careful, Ava,_ James thought. The last thing he needed was more unwanted visitors to their meeting.

He assumed that had been the reason for her overt rebuttal of his questioning earlier that day. That she had feared members of this "Council" were watching them. James shook his head at the prospect of it all. A secret cabal of older students guiding the House to maintain what they saw as the Hufflepuff values. By force and blackmail. The irony of it was beyond belief. It was the motives that James couldn't understand. Why the need to keep Hufflepuff in such a light? Did their house pride really burn so hot? Hufflepuff house had always been looked upon fondly, albeit with a touch of pity. Champions of the House like Tristan were what they needed for people to take them seriously. As it stood, Ava Adams was the only Hufflepuff whose name James could recall offhand. And she was the epitome of what their house valued. James wondered if it was the only reason she was allowed to stand so tall, because she lived their values so fiercely. Truly, it was a game beyond James, at this point.

'For a bunch of Hufflepuffs, you sure do spend a lot of time acting like Slytherins.' James' call was loud and confident. Verging on cocky. In truth, he hoped his words stung a little. He was still smarting from their exchange earlier that day – even if it had only been a charade.

'There will be no Hufflepuffs here, tonight, Potter.'

The reply was a male voice. A familiar voice. One of the last ones James wanted to hear at that moment.

Caspar Helstrom.

The reasoning behind the overloud, shuffling footsteps became clear, as four other figures appeared behind Caspar in the doorway. He'd been concealing their presence. Likewise, behind James, the other exit to the Trophy room became similarly blocked. Ten figures in all, James counted. Members of Caspar's infamous Glorious Sacrifice group who had so troubled them last year. James suddenly wished that he'd brought the Cloak.

'Imagine our pleasure when a little birdy told us you'd be out here, all alone, Potter.' Caspar's voice dripped with malice. It was no secret he blamed James for the death of his friend at the end of their fourth year. A death that had also succeeded in breaking the Ministry stranglehold on Hogwarts. James tried not to think about it in that way.

'Who told you?' James asked. He expected no answer, but it was all he could think to say. He was trying to buy time, trying to work out a way out of the trap they'd sprung. It was becoming increasingly apparent he was going to have to blast through five wizards to do it.

'A little _yellow_ birdy,' Caspar continued. 'I heard she sang like a canary.'

_Ava._ So it had been a ruse, then. The note to lure him here, alone. She must have known he'd trust her enough for that. Must have counted on their relationship on the pitch to hold strong enough for this.

The betrayal stung more than James would care to admit. But perhaps it made sense. Who would suspect such a perfect Hufflepuff as Ava Adams? He vowed a vengeance on her as well. He hoped he could carry it out on the pitch.

'Why don't you fight me man to man, Caspar?' James goaded. 'Unless you're too _afraid_.'

It was really the only hope he could see. Bait Caspar into a duel. Ten against one were odds he was never going to win. But Caspar's cool smile told James he had no interest in falling for that.

'Not likely Potter. Perhaps that would work on you thick-skulled Gryffindors, but it doesn't take even the brightest of us Ravenclaws to realise ten against one is surefire odds.'

'That's good,' James spat. 'Because there's no way you're the brightest of anything.'

'Oh, how I shall enjoy this.' The smirk on Caspar's face was as unbearable as the mockery that dripped from his words. 'The Hufflepuffs sure have got it in for you, Potter. "Anything goes", they said. I don't care what you did to piss them off, but I hope you keep sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, Potter, because this is going to be only too fun.'

The unfairness of it stung. The lack of honour in this attack physically pained James. It was so… so un-Gryffindor. He'd not even considered such an option. But what he did know, was fighting. And he'd be damned if he let Caspar take him down without landing a few blows of his own, first.

'_Stupefy!'_ James roared, drawing his wand in a flash.

'_Iminuum!'_ Caspar cried, slashing through the spell, leaving it to dissipate in a series of feeble sparks.

James ducked and rolled as the expected barrage of spellfire from behind him zipped over his head. It was his saving grace, that both groups were aligned directly across the room from one another. The backstabbing spells his opening gambit elicited shot directly towards Caspar and his group. They had to scramble to erect shields or duck for cover. James didn't hesitate.

'_Protego! Depulsum!'_

Just as Professor Meadows had done in class, he interwove his shield with a banishing charm, sending it rocketing towards a reeling Caspar. One of his cronies managed to fire off a Hex in James' direction, but it fizzled against the shield, which reached the group and _popped_ with a dull, concussive blast. It staggered them backwards in much the way it had done to Clip, in the classroom. James took the window of opportunity and bolted through the open doorway, over the sprawling bodies.

He tore off up the corridor, his only thoughts on the safety of the Gryffindor common room. Upwards, he sprinted. Behind him, he heard Caspar shouting, and a wave of footfalls in hot pursuit. He hoped desperately that some prefect on patrol would stumble across them. Or better yet, a professor. But his path was suspiciously deserted as he sprinted from corridor to corridor. Pools of glowing moonlight and the dark smears of sleeping portraiture whipped past as he sought only to keep as much distance as possible between himself and the pursuers.

A jet of red light zipped past James' shoulder. They were getting closer. He ducked down a concealed passage behind a suit of armour, forcing himself sideways to squeeze through the narrow confines. He burst out again one floor up, and now in the west wing of the central tower. He gave a cry of dismay as footsteps sounded at the end of the corridor. They'd found another way. He turned and fled. Upward, ever upward. He must keep them from getting between himself at the Gryffindor common room. If they cut him off, all was lost.

An unused classroom housed a cabinet with a false back that hid a tunnel leading to a windowed walkway on the northern face of the tower. It was narrow and winding, but the steep staircase at its end put James out on the sixth floor. Still, the pursuers tailed him. They were as adept as he at navigating the castle. He bolted to his left – the more direct route. But two figures blocked that way. Blue light hammered into the wall behind James as he skidded to a halt. He rolled to avoid another barrage, and turned about face. To his right, then. A sinuous corridor that meandered through classrooms mostly kept for the lower years. Its curved path blocked line of sight for his attackers, at least.

The end of the corridor held two doors. On the right, a dead-end broom closet. But the door on the left led to a narrow space concealed in the walls that led to the seventh floor. Almost to the Fat Lady herself. It wasn't so much a secret passage, as it was a highly inconvenient way to travel through the castle. It was well known to most of Gryffindor house, and James, himself, had used it often.

He threw a Blasting Hex over his shoulder. It collided with a suit of armour. Rattles and clangs filled the air, interspersed with curses. He hoped he'd at least tripped a couple. Up ahead, the door beckoned. Closed tonight. Curious, as it was usually ajar. James collided into it with his full weight, expecting it to give way. It didn't budge. He jiggled the handle desperately. Nothing.

'_Alohomora!'_ real desperation filled his cry. Again, nothing. This was not a simple magical locking. The door was sealed. James had no time to think on how strange that was.

To fight, it was, then. He readied his wand, and spun to face his attackers-

Only to receive the full force of a Disarming Charm right in the face. The force of it flung him backwards, into the unyielding door. He felt his wand fly from his fingers, felt white hot pain blossom in the back of his head, and sudden light burst bright and searing across his vision. He managed to stagger a step forwards, his mind reeling, thoughts spilling out through his mind, with no chance of ordering them. He would have fallen, but a hand grabbed the front of his shirt, shaking him roughly.

Caspar's face swam into view. James' vision had a hard time focusing. Beady eyes glinted in the moonlight. White teeth flashed in a snarling grin. And a fist, as if from nowhere sent James' world into a blossom of pain, and the embrace of darkness.


	10. Presence of Mind

James awoke the next morning where he had been left, on the cold, hard flagstones of the sixth-floor corridor. As out of the way as it was, nobody had stumbled across him, though light was well and truly streaming in through the high, arch windows. It was this – a beam splaying across his face – that had woken him. He rolled over and groaned. Everything hurt. He cursed and grunted as he managed to work himself up into a sitting position. A sheen of sweat broke out across his forehead from the exertion. When he finally made it, he leaned his head back against the rough wood of the traitorous locked door and breathed deeply of the fresh morning air.

James felt gingerly at his ribs, poking and prodding and checking for damage. To breathe did not pain him too much, so he assumed nothing was broken. He slid his shirt off over his head to take stock of the purple and blue blossoms that mottled his torso. Barely an inch of his skin was spared. He winced as his fingers found a particularly sore spot high on his left side. Most of the pain was radiating from there, though it looked to his untrained eye no more or less badly beaten that the rest of him.

His tongue he ran across his teeth, feeling for any that were loose, or, worse, missing. But all were intact. His lip had been split, and the effort cracked open barely-healed scabs, sending a trickle of steely blood into his mouth. He spat it out, uncaring, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His nose felt three times the size it usually was, but appeared to still be straight and intact. It seemed after Caspar's initial punch, they'd mostly stayed away from his face.

Slowly, and with much cursing, James levered himself to his feet. His knees wobbled and threatened to give way beneath him, but a good minute of steadying breaths while leaned up against the solid door righted him enough to make the aching journey across the corridor to retrieve his wand. Relief flooded him as he turned it over in his hands to find it undamaged. Not a mark on it, in fact. He hadn't realised how much it meant to him, but the knowledge that his wand was safe, that this secret, at least, was still secure, was something of a balm to his myriad wounds. He clutched the ash and bone wand tightly to his chest, feeling an icy, determined cold radiating out from between his fingers. A sudden breeze stirred the hairs on his bared arms, and he felt himself bristle as an ethereal death-rattle of a voice brushed past his ear. '_Revenge…'_ it whispered.

James hurriedly stowed his wand back into his pocket.

The journey back to his dormitory was an agonising one. James struggled not to show any sign of hurt or discomfort. He didn't know if Caspar or his cronies, or if the Hufflepuff Council themselves were watching. But if they were, he stubbornly refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing a job well done. His steps were slow and ginger. He leaned heavily on the bannister when climbing the stairs up to the seventh floor, and when he finally made it into the privacy of his dormitory, he flopped face down on the bed and lay there a long moment, collecting his thoughts and letting the pain wash over him, feeling all the aches pulse together as one, like a second, malicious heartbeat at counterpoint to his own.

Eventually he rose, and slowly began dressing for the day. He knew he was late – all the others were already at breakfast. Class was due to start any moment, but he had Care of Magical Creatures first up, and Hagrid would surely be lenient if he arrived a little late.

He had guessed correctly, though in the end, James was more than a little late. The lesson had well and truly begun. The class was milling about, dividing up into pairs to carry out the task that they were to be assigned for the day. Before James could even find his bearings, Tristan emerged from the press and grabbed James by the upper arm.

James couldn't hide the wince, nor the hiss of pain that escaped through his teeth. He noted, as well, Tristan's grimace as James yanked his arm free, as if the movement had hurt him, too.

'The bastards,' James growled in a low voice. The pair separated themselves a way, letting the ruling chaos lend them cover while Hagrid dithered around the back of his hut, fetching the subject of their lesson.

'You, too, then?' Tristan asked, though his eyes said he already knew the answer.

'Ava sold us out,' James hissed. It was the only answer he could come up with. Nobody else had known about their scheduled meeting. 'When I see her…'

But Tristan was shaking his head. 'I've already seen her this morning, from across the common room. She wouldn't look at me, but her arm was in a sling. Her throwing arm. If she did spill, I don't think it was voluntary.'

'How can they get away with that?' James spat. 'She's their poster child.'

'She's telling everyone she fell out of bed in the night. Stupid, but they're believing it. Nobody would suspect it of a bunch of Hufflepuffs, that's half the problem.'

'Don't they see how stupid this all is? All to keep you off the Quidditch team…'

'All to protect Hufflepuff's legacy,' Tristan corrected.

'Even worse! Have they no sense of irony? This violence is the least Hufflepuff thing imaginable.'

'Which means, that every time they up the stakes, they are going to me ever more… vigorous in ensuring their dirty little secret doesn't get out.'

'I hope you're not planning on giving in to them,' James whispered, as Hagrid reappeared, clapping his gigantic hands together and drawing a blanket of silence across the class.

Tristan's reply was a whispered one, as they re-joined the group near the back. 'Mate, I've fought ice-demons and Steelhearts. I've been in to the Department of Mysteries and back again. You can bet your last Knut that when it comes to these bullies, I am _not_ going to yield.'

James smiled to himself. The cuts and bruises he wore were a little easier to carry when he could dull the edge of their pain with thoughts of revenge and retribution.

The lesson itself provided an additional, much-needed, if tiresome, distraction. Hagrid had sought for them all a flock – a herd? James wasn't quite sure of the collective noun – of small, excitable little critters called Snufflings. They looked like miniature, garishly-coloured, feathered piglets, with paws in place of hooves, a double row of gleaming, sharp teeth, and beady golden eyes. Each one fit comfortably in the palm of James' hand. Needless to say, every single female in the class adored them.

'Oh, they're so _cute!'_ Squealed Leah Ridley.

'I'm naming mine Buttons!' Rosalie Gardner added with a squeak.

When she thought nobody was looking, Cat was surreptitiously stuffing handfuls of the little, mewling things down her shirt to smuggle out of class. By this point, she appeared to have roughly six writhing breasts, and something was clearly biting her, if the watering eyes and twitching cheek was anything to go by.

'Now, now, don't let's get too carried away over there,' Hagrid said, waving his hands above his head.' Leah clutched her Snuffling to her chest protectively, as if Hagrid were about to steal it back from her.

The little things were busily scurrying about on a small makeshift bench Hagrid had set up on two trestles out the front of his hut. Their brightly coloured feathers shone with a metallic hue beneath the early morning sun. They gave off little, high-pitched hiccupping sounds as they scurried about, bumping in to one another and feeding on an assortment of seeds, nuts, and what looked to be a few dead mice.

'These Snuffling's have been gifted us by the Department of Regulation of Magical Creatures,' Hagrid explained, deftly ducking to save one as it happily scurried off the edge of the bench, apparently oblivious as to its peril. 'Was a time they used ter be a common sight in the forests and fields of Britain, but their numbers have been declinin' over the last few years. They've been harvested, see, for their feathers. They've got magical properties. And their saliva goes in to most healing salves. And their liver helps re-knit flesh. And their blood… well, you get the picture. Right useful little critters to have around, they are. Only problem is, Ministry's getting' worried we're runnin' out of 'em, so they sent me a crateful. We're going to conduct us a bit of a breeding' program for the wee critters.'

The girls all _squee -_ed together. James and Tristan shared a dubious look.

'How come we're running out of them?' Fred piped up from the other side of the group.

'Over-explotin', fer the most part,' Hagrid explained. 'But they're also none too bright. Not much of a survival instinct, in the wild.'

As if to punctuate this, another of the little Snufflings bolted towards the edge of the bench and tried to fling itself off the precipice. Leah and Rosie gasped together, but Hagrid made yet another diving save.

James looked on, impressed. Hagrid might have made a good Keeper. If they could manufacture a broom his size. Likely, they'd need half a sapling to manage it.

'This is goin' ter be a year-long project,' Hagrid continued, juggling the squirming, squealing Snuffling in his hands. 'With a good portion of yer grades going towards your OWL in Care of Magical Creatures. You'll be graded on how you care for 'em, how you feed 'em, how happy they are, and, o' course, how many babies yeh've got come the end of the year.'

Leah and Rosie were now jumping up and down on the spot in glee, clapping excitedly and exchanging exuberant glances.

James and Tristan shared another perplexed look. The little Snufflings running around on the bench just didn't seem very… _Hagrid,_ to James. He raised his hand.

'Er, Hagrid. They don't seem particularly… exciting.'

'You mean _life-threatening,'_ Tristan muttered.

'Oh, no they're plenty excitin',' Hagrid assured them. 'Yeh've got to watch out, because if yer get them over-stimulated, they're like as not to catch fire. Doesn't hurt them, they're immune, but it can be a nasty little inferno if you get a few together.'

'_What?!'_ gasped half the class in unison.

'Uh-oh,' groaned Cat, whose newly-acquired breasts had reached a fever-pitch in squealing and writhing.

There was a final, piercing squeak, a _whoosh_ of rushing air, and a sudden bright green inferno engulfed Cat from the waist up. This promptly ended Cat's Care of Magical Creatures lesson, and she was carried off to the Hospital Wing covered in angry red blisters and welts. She seemed far more concerned, however, with the loss of all of her hair. At least this time, James mused, it wasn't his fault.

Hagrid – who had departed with Cat – assigned James and Tristan the task of keeping the little Snuffling safely upon the benchtop. The rest of the class was tasked with rounding up the – now naked and featherless – Snufflings that had escaped from Cat's shirt. It was one of the more ridiculous lessons in James' recent memory, and involved no few singed robes, plenty of the acrid stench of burnt hair, and a black eye for Fred after Rosalie Gardner caught him trying to sneak a Snuffling into her back pocket. The end of the lesson and the reprieve of lunchtime was the most welcome event so far in James' day.

On his way back up to the castle, James lagged back from the rest of the group. It wasn't difficult, his injuries made walking up the hill a taxing labour. But it wasn't entirely because of the pain it caused him; he'd seen a familiar face making her way back from the Quidditch stands.

'Hello Ava,' James said, falling in to step beside her. Her arm was no longer in the sling as Tristan had seen it, but she was wearing a Hufflepuff Quidditch singlet, and heavy strapping covered her from elbow to shoulder. James watched her bright expression wink out like a candle as he approached.

'H-hi, James.' Her eyes began darting up and across the grounds, though there was nobody to be seen. Even a chance glance from the windows of the castle would only show two shapeless figures making the trek back up the hillside.

'How was your workout?'

'G-good… I had a free period, so…' she trailed off, clearly uncomfortable.

'Look, I know it wasn't you. Or, rather, it was, but it wasn't your choice to tell. I don't blame you.'

Some of the tensions released from her shoulders, and she gave an audible sigh. 'Did they-? Are you-?'

In answer, James pulled up the bottom of his shirt, to show the purple-and-blue tapestry that was his ribs.

Ava gasped. 'Oh, _James-'_

'It's fine. That's not what I came to talk about. We need to make a plan to get back at them.'

Ava's face went slack. She looked at James as if not understanding the words he was saying. They'd paused along the path, in the shade of a single, sprawling oak tree, whose verdant foliage and broad, colossal trunk offered shade from sun and prying eyes both. James stepped closer to her. He saw Ava's recognition of the intensity of his own gaze.

'James, I- We _can't_. Look at what they did to us. They could have seriously hurt us. And I… I can't risk getting hurt. Sixth year is when the professional teams send scouts to watch your games, if you're good enough. I've already received two owls this year. I really need to focus on Quidditch this year, before NEWTs take over and kick my butt in seventh year.'

'We can't let them do this to us, Ava. You _know_ we have to stand up to them.'

Her bright red hair danced about her face as she shook her head. 'That's not my way, James. I'm not a Gryffindor like you. I'm a Hufflepuff, we just buckle down and weather the storm… I wasn't cut out for conflict.'

'No, but you _were_ cut out for looking after your friends. Nobody in this entire school is as kind and caring as you are, Ava. Let me worry about the conflict. I just need you on my side in this, that's all. Can I count on you?'

James reached up to take Ava by the shoulders. He withdrew his grip as she flinched with the pain in her right shoulder. She must have been testing it out down on the pitch. Their first match was coming up that very weekend.

'Fine, James. I'm in. You can be very convincing, you know that?'

James just shrugged. 'I'll get a note to you for when we should next meet up. And about your shoulder, I might know where to find some feathery piglet spit that could help you by this Saturday.'

Ava screwed up her face. 'Uhm. Ew.'

James stepped back and smiled. 'Let me head back down and talk to Hagrid. I'll be in touch. Look out for a little blonde Gryffindor first-year who carries around too many books. She'll get in touch when I have a plan.'

Ava looked more puzzled than anything, but James was already turning to leave. It was time to see if "Sir James" could cash in on some of those favours he must have earned himself from young Lawrence, Safia, and the rest of the cowardly Gryffindor first-years.

But the rest of the week passed without further incident, at least as far as the mysterious and ominous Hufflepuff Council of Elders was concerned. James' bruises healed – thanks in no small part to some of the Snuffling saliva he had managed to procure from Hagrid. Ava had been most gracious when he had smuggled her a small phial of it courtesy of young Safia Higgins. Who, it turned out, was only too eager to help, and had to beat little Lawrence back for the honour by winning a series of games called rock-paper-scissors-Niffler-dragon.

That Friday night, when most of the rest of his friends were relaxing, or, in the case of Clip and Cassie, furiously studying in a secluded corner of the library (or at least, they _told_ everyone they were going to study), James found himself locked away in an empty fifth floor classroom with Professors Longbottom and Meadows. He found himself shaking, and drenched in cold sweat. He found himself frustrated, angry, and no small bit confused. He also found himself with an absolutely splitting headache.

'This isn't working!' he growled for what felt like the hundredth time, as he fell back into his seat, pressing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. It did little to halt the dagger-like pain driving into his temples.

'It will if you focus, James,' Professor Longbottom encouraged.

'It isn't supposed to be easy, Potter, and it sure as hell isn't supposed to work on the first go around.' There was a forced calm in Professor Meadows' voice. James could sense her own flighty temper threatening to bubble over.

'But we're not on the first try, we're on the thousandth!'

'This is your first real attempt at Occlumency, James,' Professor Longbottom stepped in once more. He, at least, seemed to have boundless patience. 'All of those mind exercises from last year, they were little more than mental preparation. Stretching your brain-muscles, if you will. I trust that you kept them up over the summer?'

'Er…' In truth, James had been glad to be rid of what he had thought to be largely pointless exercises meant to frustrate him.

'Idiot,' Professor Meadows muttered. James glowered at her, a little sullen.

'It's no worry, James. You will practice them each night, before bed. As well as the ones we have covered tonight. You will clear your mind of all thoughts. Focus on the nothingness that comes with the silence. Fall asleep in that void, and your dreams will be protected as best you are able at this early stage. Am I understood?''

'Yes, professor.' James knew he'd try, but he also knew for a fact that he would fail. There was no way he could silence his mind, not with everything that he was already juggling. Between Odette and Rain, Rain and her memories, Rain and the Desecrator, Clip and his OWLs, Ava and the Hufflepuffs… the list went on. James hardly felt as if he had a moment to think for himself, let alone search for some imaginary nothingness that supposedly lurked in a corner of his mind.

'One last time, then,' Professor Longbottom suggested. 'It's getting late, and curfew approaches.'

James sighed. 'Fine.'

He sat upright in his chair and faced Professor Meadows a small way away. The room was lit only by a few glowing spheres of light, hovering about their head and lending a soft, buttery glow. The tables and chairs had been Banished to the edges of the room upon entry, and waited patiently to be returned to their rightful position in neat, orderly rows. Tapestries hung on three of the four walls, depicting witches and wizards in apparently uncomfortable phases of self-Transfigurations, if their expressions were anything to go by. They looked on gloomily as James' misery played out before them. Spitefully happy, he would bet, that someone else was as clearly feeling as wretched as they.

Professor Meadows reached out her hands, and James placed his own within them. The contact helped her, so she said. He stared up into her pale, blue eyes, and dully registered the apologetic smile she flashed him before muttering _'Legilimens,'_ and the assault began.

_Walls,_ James desperately though. _I need walls!_ But it was as if Professor Meadows drove a railroad spike into his brain. All thought of self-defence fled as he curled up mentally around the breach, feeling himself whimper internally as the pain consumed him, bleeding out into every aspect of his being, leaving him surrendering himself unwillingly to the attack. Memories flashed to the fore, unbidden. Things he wanted kept secret. Scenes from the Department of Mysteries, private conversations with Rain – before and after her memories. Ava's face, fearful and flighty, Tristan's bruised chest to match his own. Odette-

'Woah, James! Keep a lid on _that,_ at least! That's far more of Miss Mansfield than I _ever_ wanted to see!'

Professor Meadows tore free from James' mind. He felt her presence rip away like an arrow torn out of his flesh. The gaping, ragged-edge wound she left fluttered free for a moment, before James' thoughts rushed in to fill the void, healing over the damage and returning him to full consciousness, leaving a layer of scarification in the form of his splitting headache and disorientation that had been plaguing him all night.

'I can't… help it,' he ground out between clenched teeth. 'You're in there… everywhere.'

'Those are the types of memories that you should be protecting,' she continued, a little more kindly. Though she still wouldn't quite meet his eye, and there was a dusting of colour high on her cheeks.

'I _can't,'_ James repeated. 'It's… it's like telling me to count to ten without thinking of rabbits. Once you're in there, the first thing that I think of are the private memories. I can't… it's too much.'

A thought suddenly came to James. Perhaps because he was on the topic of secret memories. He had been running through the scant few he _hadn't_ revealed to Professor Meadows, thinking of the beating he'd received at the hands of Caspar Helstrom and his cronies.

'The sixth floor corridor on the western side – the narrow one that links up to the seventh floor via the back staircase. How long has that been sealed off?'

Both professors looked at him, perplexed. 'It hasn't,' Professor Longbottom replied. 'At least not to my knowledge. And that's something I'd certainly be informed of.'

'It has,' James insisted. 'I was up there the other night-'

'Don't tell us!' Professor Meadows burst in, red-faced. James rolled his eyes.

'I was _not_ doing… that. It was locked. Sealed off. I couldn't open it with any spell.'

'I'll have a look into it,' Professor Longbottom assured James, though there was a subtle undertone that hinted that perhaps he thought this the babbling of someone who was mentally exhausted. The professor walked over and lay a hand on James' shoulder. 'But for now, I think that's enough for tonight, James. Rest up, we'll try again next week.'

'I can hardly wait,' James muttered darkly, easing himself up onto unsteady feet and tottering off towards the door. The professors stayed for a private conversation as he waved them goodbye. No doubt to talk about what a failure he was, he thought darkly to himself.

His mood was somewhat buoyed, however, when he stepped out into the corridor and saw a familiar face leaning up against the wall opposite.

'Hello James Potter.'

'Rain- how did you know I was here? Nice jumper.'

The article of clothing in question must have been at least a dozen sizes too large. It hung down as far as her knees, and her hands were well and truly lost in the folds of sleeves that dangled empty and loose well past her thighs.

'Thank you,' she responded brightly, holding up her hands and trailing a good foot of sleeve behind. 'Miss Renshaw gave it to me. It seems that while I was… away, somebody took all of my clothes. But I was allowed to take anything I wanted from the lost and found. This one is so _comfy.'_

'Erm… indeed.' James was still having a hard time grasping how un-Rain-like the new Rain was.

'I followed you after dinner to this room. And then you went inside. So I waited here for you to return.'

'Okay…' James shot her a look. He'd been in there at least two hours.

There must have been something in his glance, for she suddenly looked stricken. 'I-is that not… normal?'

'No, no, no, it's fine!' James hastened to add, holding out his hands. Try as he might, he still couldn't get accustomed to this new, strange Rain. 'Shall we walk?'

Rain nodded happily, clearly appeased. She practically skipped down the corridor next to James, her hair bouncing and dancing upon her shoulders as they made their meandering way through the castle.

'So… how was your day?' James eventually asked into the silence that was stretching beyond the bounds of companionable and into the realms of awkwardness. He'd imagined she had something of import to tell him. Or else why would she have waited for two hours outside the classroom he was sequestered away in?

'Oh, it was okay, I guess. I accidentally flooded one of the girls' bathrooms earlier, when a sneeze caught me surprise. Did you know there's a _ghost_ in there? She gave me such a fright I set all the taps to running again! Well, except for this one that must be broken…'

'Yea,' James agreed. 'I wouldn't get too close to that one, if I were you.'

'I couldn't turn any of them off so I just sort of… fled. The ghost was yelling at me. She's so _angry.'_

'So I've heard,' James nodded. 'Not sure what my dad saw in her.'

Rain gave a small, shy giggle, and then fell silent again. She'd stopped her skipping, and now walked normally, with her hands folded at her waist before her, trailing the ends of the sleeves down to her knees. Every so often, James caught her gaze flitting upwards to catch his own, and then away again. Alighting with the softest touch, like a skittish young bird.

James waited patiently for her to speak up. It was clear to him that she was building up for something; likely the reason she had cornered him this night. He allowed them to continue in silence for a while longer. The candles around them dimmed as curfew approached, leaving shifting, morphing shadows in between the pools of warm, golden light that spilled across the hallway ahead of them. The high arch windows that made up one side of the corridor showed an expansive vista of a starry sky. Without a moon to be seen, they shone all the brighter, picking out the rugged shape of the distant mountains by their obvious absence above the horizon.

They had been making their way steadily downwards – though James had been ambling without real purpose. He paused on a first-floor landing when he heard Rain make an intake of breath, and sensed her turn to face him, her face hardened in steely resolve.

'I've been hearing voices,' she eventually said.

James breathed out heavily. Around them, in the enclosing darkness, there was barely a sound to answer back. The sputtering of a dying candle. The shuffling and rustling susurrations of portraits shifting in their frames. He ran a hand through his hair and tentatively ventured back, 'What kind of voices?'

'Well, just one, really. Just a single phrase, over and over.'

James' heart was still as he breathed his reply. 'What does it say?'

'She. She says: "I'm going to find you."'

James took an involuntary step backwards, shaking his head as he did. 'No. No that can't be right. Are you sure, Rain?'

James' reaction had clearly fanned the sparks of Rain's fear, and it ran wild across her face. She reached out to James, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and thrusting her face into his own. 'She's looking for me, James. The one who did this. I know it. I can feel her, out there… _She's coming.'_

'_Who_ is coming? And by the Founders, girl, it had _best_ not be you.'

At the sound of the intruding voice, James sprung away from Rain, breaking her grip on his shirt. He looked wide-eyed at Odette, who had rounded the corner behind him and now stood, leaning up against the wall with her arms folded, sharing half a death-stare each between himself and Rain.

'It's nothing, Odette.' James fumbled for an explanation. He told the truth – it _was _nothing. At least, in terms of what she was thinking.

'James, who is this?' Rain whispered loudly in his ear.

'Are you _kidding_ me?' Odette yelled. 'She doesn't- You haven't told her about me?'

James closed his eyes, wishing fervently he was tucked away in his bed. His head was pounding far too much to be dealing with this at the moment.

'This one is your _girl-_friend?' Rain eventually asked, genuinely curious. She put odd emphasis on the word.

'Yes, Rain. Odette is my girlfriend.'

'I see. I just guessed. Fred has said that she is an angry Slytherin in a tiny skirt. So…'

'Zip it, scar-tits,' Odette snarled. 'Unless you've got a damned good explanation as to why the two of you are wandering the corridors alone together past curfew.'

'I needed to speak to James,' Rain shrugged, as if that were a perfectly reasonable explanation.

'Odette, this is Rain,' James said, mostly to himself. 'Rain, meet Odette.'

'I'll get to you in a minute,' Odette glared.

'Hello!' Rain said brightly, extending a hand.

'Are you-' Odette's glanced flicked to James, the first hint of uncertainty dancing across her features. She continued in a poorly-concealed whisper. 'Has she turned… _simple?'_

'She lost all of her memories,' James explained with a shrug.

'_All_ of them,' Rain supplied, nodding seriously.

'I see.' A great deal of the wind had clearly been taken from Odette's sails. She was now looking more confused than anything. But credit to her, she didn't give up that easily. 'Well… here's something to stick in that empty old head of yours: You don't go wandering around the castle at night with other people's boyfriends. _Especially_ not mine.'

Rain was biting her lower lip, and nodding away as if concentrating hard to commit the lesson to memory. James might have found it comical, if he hadn't thought he was a few wrong words away from castration.

'Come on, James,' Odette continued. 'There are no prefects on the ground floor. We can slip in to that broom closet with the mirror that you like and I'll show you a trick I've been working on with a rope, two feathers, and an empty Butterbeer bottle…'

'Can I catch you up?' James asked. 'I need to finish with Rain, first.'

'_Unbelievable!'_ Odette threw her hands in the air and wheeled away. She turned at a bend in the corridor to look back at the pair of them. 'You'll damned well be _finishing_ all on your own tonight.'

James sighed.

'What a _harlot,'_ Rain said.

'_Rain!'_

'Oh, I'm sorry. Is that a bad word? It's just what Cassie calls her when you're not around.'

James put his head in his hands in exasperation.

'Fred calls her lots of names, but I don't think I should say them out loud. They make me blush.'

With his mood well and truly soured, James turned back to Rain and gripped her by the shoulders.

'Look, about what you were saying earlier. I was there when… when it happened to you. I saw what that witch did to you to make you lose your memories. I tried to save you, but… I failed. But she died, Rain. There was nobody else there. She _can't_ be coming for you, I saw her body myself.'

James had pushed that body off of Rain's unconscious form himself. He recalled it seeming to shift before his eyes… an illusion of the magic around them, no doubt. That whirling vortex spawned from the Veil had been taking up most of his attention.

'Y-you don't believe me?' Rain asked, clearly hurt.

'No it's not that. I just… we need to be careful before we jump to any conclusions, that's all.'

James' mind was racing, doing exactly what he'd told Rain to avoid, and arriving at frightening answers to many of the questions he asked himself.

'For now, we should head back up to bed, before anyone else catches us, and gets the wrong idea.'

Rain nodded, but looked clearly reluctant.

'Is something else the matter?' James probed.

'No. It's just… that's when it happens most often, James. She comes for me in my dreams.'

James' mouth became suddenly dry, and a helpless, sinking sensation washed over him. There was nothing he could do to offer protection. It seemed, that for Rain, even in her own mind, she would never be safe.


	11. Out of the Frying Pan into the Fire

The sun burned high and hot in a perfectly cloudless sky. The cavernous blue yawned above, blushing to a faded white atop the distant horizon. Light glinted off the quivering tops of wavelets upon the black lake, forsaking its name to dance instead with colour and light.

The beauty of the warm day had drawn almost the entirety of the school out for the trip down to Hogsmeade, and a steady flow of students snaked between the village and the castle, with yet more dotting the grassy verges and sun-drenched hillsides throughout the valley, taking in what might be the last of the good weather, a final parting gift of a balmy autumn season.

James Potter was one among many in that steady trickle of bodies. He walked arm-in-arm with Odette, in companionable silence for the moment, enjoying the warm kiss of the sun's rays, and the sense that the day held endless possibilities in store for them both.

And in truth it did, for Odette at least. For she had something planned that she had been keeping fiercely secret from James' prying and probing. He'd exhausted himself over breakfast, trying to glean it from her, and finally, as they had left the castle grounds, had given it up as a bad job.

'Typical Slytherin,' James muttered for the umpteenth time. 'Happy to share in everyone else's secrets, but the moment it's something about yourself, you're as tight-lipped as a virgin clam.'

'Now there's two things nobody has ever accused me of being before,' Odette replied playfully.

They continued onwards, and soon came to the outskirts of Hogsmeade village. But where the bulk of the student body turned right, up the high street and towards where the open doors of the Three Broomsticks spilled laugher and merriment out onto the street, Odette steered James left, to a less well-travelled part of the town. Here, there were few shops, and several houses had boarded-up windows. The cobbles of the street slowly gathered a thicker and thicker film of greasy dust as they forsook all of the main thoroughfares in favour of back alleyways.

James observed a curious thing happening as they progressed through the town. Odette, who had been holding on to James' hand for most of the journey, released his grip to wipe her palms upon her skirt. Then she retook James' arm, and clutched it tight. Then she released it, and walked with her hand at her side. Then with her arms folded. Then she toyed constantly with her ponytail, drawing it forwards over her shoulder and combing it relentlessly with her fingers. When she gave even that up, and started biting on the nails of her left hand, James finally spoke up.

'If I didn't know you any better, Odette Mansfield, I'd say you were nervous.'

She stopped suddenly in her tracks, heaved a great sigh, and turned to face James. She put her hands on her hips huffily and gave him a playful glare. 'Oh, stop enjoying it so much.'

James just shrugged, and made of his face a picture of wide-eyed innocence.

'Fine, I'll tell you, then,' she eventually said. James at least had the good grace not to laugh. 'But you need to promise not to tell anyone. And that includes all of your dorky friends, too.'

James sighed. 'How is it you manage to make even this seem like you are the one doing me a favour.'

'It's one of my most prized talents. Along with that thing I do with my tongue... But never mind that now-'

'Well now you've got me thinking about it!'

'Shut up. The Montrose Magpies owled me over the summer and asked if I'd try out for them. I've got a private session arranged for today with one of their recruiting team. This… this might be my shot to make it into the League, James.'

It eventually came to James' attention that his mouth was hanging open. He snapped it shut with a _click. _He didn't know where to start. He'd always known Odette was going to try and make it into the professional Quidditch leagues. But… _now?_

'Y-you will have your shot whenever you want it, Odette,' James stammered. 'You don't need to do it now.'

'This might be my only chance with Montrose,' she countered. 'They've the best facilities in the league, and their Chasers are some of the sharpest. Well, as sharp as Chasers can be, that is. Their Seeker has just retired. If I can get in there, we could be winning championships next year.'

_Next year._ There was a spark of defiance in her voice, behind the excitement. James squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to just let it go, to be happy for Odette. It was just so sudden. And so… final.

'Don't you think you should at least stay through to the end of school?' James asked. He tried to make his voice as earnest as possible. She misread his concern entirely.

'Oh, James, darling. We'll still keep in touch, don't you worry, I won't forget about you! And just think, you'll be able to tell everyone at school you're dating a professional quidditch star. And then, when you join the league after school, we'll be the greatest power couple since your father failed to marry Hermione Granger.'

James blinked slowly. There was rather a lot to unpack there, not least with the slightly nauseating thought of his father marrying his aunt. He decided he was better off letting that one slide. For now. 'So then, tell me about this trial.'

'Oh, it's just a basic run through the paces, from what they told me,' Odette began, evidently oblivious to James' strife. She started nattering away, her nerves making her overly chatty, and dragged James onwards through the outskirts of town, down towards the makeshift Quidditch pitch and rickety old stands that lay nestled in the valley below. 'He was going to come watch the match last weekend, but couldn't make it. Good thing he didn't, too. I'd have hated him to see us lose. Even though I _did_ catch the snitch. It was Ava's dirty tactics that did it. She _knew_ we had no reserve Chasers. I'll go to my grave swearing that elbow she threw was deliberate. Poor Justine lost three teeth. _Three!_ And couldn't tell her arsehole from her elbow, let alone carry on playing. Two Chasers against three was hardly a fair match. I caught the Snitch to put us out of our misery. That's fine, isn't it? He won't think that's selfish, will he? Oh, James, what should I tell him if he asks? We shouldn't bring it up. Let's not bring it up. Pretend it didn't happen. And don't tell him you play Quidditch, too. This is supposed to be about _me,_ remember?'

Caught up in the whirlwind, James just nodded along. The wisdom here dictated he let Odette do the talking. Something she was particularly adept at, he well knew.

He let her natter on unimpeded all the way down to the pitch. The grass that covered it was uneven in length, and in parts more weed than actual grass. A set of wonky goal hoops leaned drunkenly against one another at one end, specked with rust and almost certainly not regulation size. A pair of stands at halfway were no taller than a small house, and offered little to no advantage to the casual observer, ensuring that anybody watching would leave the match with a crick in their neck from continuously craning upwards to watch.

All in all rather a dubious location for what was supposed to be quite an official affair, although the figure that strode into view from behind the stands was a picture of professionalism in his cleanly cut Quidditch robes in the severe black-and-white stripes of the Montrose Magpies, his perfectly styled hair, and the gleaming Nimbus Model One broomstick he held draped casually over his shoulder.

'Odette Mansfield!' he called across to them. 'As I live and breathe! It's an honour.'

Odette shot a look of girlish excitement at James. 'He knows my name!'

James fought not to roll his eyes, already disliking this greasy fellow. Of course he did.

'Well, what are you waiting for, my girl? Get on over here!'

The Magpies official was grinning jovially, and held his arms wide, as if he were set to embrace Odette. Annoyingly, when they did make their way over to him, that's _exactly_ what he did. And lingered long on it, too.

'I'm Kingston Princely, Chief Recruitment Wizard for the Montrose Magpies, but of course, you already knew that. It's _you_ we need to get to know, darling. And I just can't wait to do it.'

Odette giggled – she _giggled – _and held a hand delicately against her chest. 'Oh, Kingston, it's so lovely to finally meet you.'

James had to stop himself from openly shaking his head. It was as if he didn't exist at all. He gave a pointed cough, and nudged Odette none-too-subtly in the ribs.

'Oh, right. Kingston, this is James.'

Kingston held out his hand dismissively, not even bothering to make eye contact. 'A pleasure, I'm sure, James. Good to see Odette's brought the fan club along.'

'I'm James _Potter,'_ James said, making sure to emphasise the name. 'I'm Odette's boyfriend.'

He heard Odette scoff, though the statement did earn himself a second look from Kingston. 'Good for you, buddy. Do you play, as well?'

James opened his mouth to respond the affirmative, but recalled Odette's warning against it. 'Uhh, I…'

Kingston gave him a look that said he thought James might be a bit simple, and clapped him on the shoulder. 'Why don't you sit over there out of the way in that grandstand, champ, while we go through the session. Make sure to wave your wand around, or something. Throw some sparks up when Odette does well. You know, regular cheerleader stuff.'

James glared up at Kingston's pearly white smile and his glimmering blue eyes. He hated how not a single, stupid hair was out of place on his stupid, tanned head. Eventually, Odette shouldered James and jerked her head in the direction of the stands with an obvious 'hurry up' look. He sighed and trudged away, hating this Kingston fellow already.

'Good luck,' he muttered listlessly at the grass beneath his feet.

But there was one more barb for Kingston still to twist, as he threw his arms around Odette's shoulders in an all-too-familiar fashion as he walked her around the pitch, gesticulating with the broomstick in his other hand as he presumably outlined the exercises that they were to go through. Apparently, it was absolutely _hilarious,_ James observed darkly, if the amount of time Odette spent throwing her head back and laughing was any indication.

Things didn't get much better when Odette finally did take to the air. Kingston offered her the Nimbus – the broom that all of the Magpies players flew on – and produced for himself a solid, reliable Cleansweep model to hover about and observe. James found that he had a particularly irritating habit of halting Odette between manoeuvres and getting in close to adjust her form, slipping a hand around her waist to shift her weight upon the broom, or make minute changes to her posture with one hand on the small of her back. Pretty soon, James was sitting there scowling, his arms crossed fiercely and his glare one to rival the Basilisk. He found himself wishing fervently that he was back up in the village, sharing a Butterbeer with his friends around a table at the Three Broomsticks instead.

* * *

'Cheers!' Tristan Macmillan laughed, as glasses clinked and Butterbeer sloshed over their hands.

'Here's to a whole day without studying!' Fred added, bringing the glass to his lips and draining half of it in one go. 'I'm sure Clip and Cassie are doing enough for all of us back up at the castle.'

'If you keep going at that rate, you'll forget most of what we learned this week anyway,' Tristan grinned, eyeing Fred's half-empty glass.

'Good. I'm hoping I can drink enough to forget about O.W.L exams entirely. At least for half a day or so.'

Cat, meanwhile, hadn't yet touched her drink, and was fishing around in a small black pouch she'd placed on the table between them.

'What've you go there, Cat?" Tristan enquired.

'It's a bundle of herbs,' she explained. 'You see, during the holidays, I spent some time working as an apprentice to a Butterbeer brewing company-'

'Is there any job you _didn't_ do over the holidays?' Fred interjected.

'Um. I wasn't Minister for Magic. At least, I don't _think_ I was.'

'You know, she's got a point there,' Tristan added with an overly-serious expression.

'Anyway,' Cat continued. 'I learned this trick from him. If you add these herbs to your Butterbeer, it sets off a reaction that makes the drink taste a little… hairy, but it gives one a headrush akin to licking a Billywig.'

Fred and Tristan wore identical dubious stares.

'A… Billywig?' Tristan ventured.

'Yea, you know, the little flying creatures. Their stings have all of these chemicals that make you hallucinate. But they tend not to like it when you pull them out, so you can get away with licking them for a more moderate high. It's really quite addictive.'

'It doesn't sound particularly… healthy,' Tristan said.

Fred, meanwhile, had helped himself to a handful, and happily tossed the powdered, greyish herbs into his half-empty glass. He swirled the contents once, and then tipped back the remainder, downing it in one.

'Oh, I see what you mean by _hairy,'_ he said, sticking his tongue out and going cross-eyed looking at it.

'Oh dear,' Cat added, her mouth agape and gaze appalled. 'You weren't supposed to-'

_Thump. _Fred's eyes rolled back and he fell from the chair in a heap, collapsing on the ground like a dead weight in a tangle of awkwardly-sprawled limbs.

'Is he okay?' Tristan asked, aghast.

Cat held up one finger. She'd just taken a sip of her own spiked drink, and was currently half-cross-eyed herself, with a firm grip on the table to steady the gentle swaying that momentarily overtook her.

She surfaced with a great, shuddering breath. A dreamy look still misted her vision. Tristan could see goosebumps on her exposed arms. 'Goodness gracious, that feels good,' Cat breathed.

'Er, hello, what about Fred?' Tristan was poking their collapsed friend with the toe of his shoe, but eliciting no response. Other patrons in the bar were simply walking around him, evidently fairly well accustomed to such floor decorations.

'Oh, he'll be fine,' Cat shrugged. 'The herbs become exponentially more potent, the less beverage one has to dilute them. He'll come 'round in a while. He's just passed out from over-stimulation.'

'There are worse ways to go, I guess,' Tristan shrugged, and took another sip of his own, definitely-not-spiked drink.

'Hello, you two, mind if I muscle in on this private little gathering?'

The sound of the newcomer's voice caused Tristan to inhale a small amount of his drink, and he was too busy choking and spluttering to be able to protest, as Lily Potter sauntered into view from among the growing crowd.

She'd taken full advantage of the warm, summery weather, and was wearing a vibrant little sundress. Her hair was tied back with a silver and green ribbon, and had enough make-up on that she looked… well, Tristan dared not finish that thought, only to say that she certainly didn't look like a third year.

'Hello, Lily,' Cat greeted her brightly. 'I'm surprised to see you here.'

Lily shrugged. 'Really? I couldn't tell. You don't have any eyebrows today.'

Cat raised a hand to stroke the pale strips of skin where her eyebrows had once been. 'I had my hair burned off in a small explosion. The rest of it grew back, but it seems my eyebrows are a little shy. I've been singing to them every night to try and coax them back. It's not working.'

'I… see.' Lily obviously took this as acceptance. And, instead of taking the seat opposite, newly vacated by Fred's untimely collapse, she squished and squirmed and elbowed her way in to the tiny space between Tristan and Cat. She set her drink down on the table with an air of permanence. Tristan tried his best to leave a little space between them, but it was as if her shoulders were magnetic. Whichever way he moved, she always found a way to subtly brush up against him.

There was nothing for it but to take another long drink from his mug and bitterly curse his rotten luck.

'So, what are we talking about?' Lily asked brightly, beaming up at the pair of them. Dripping with smugness though it was, her smile was one that lit up her entire face. The green eyes she'd inherited from her father glittered like-

_Stop._ Tristan tore his gaze away and fixated upon the grain of the wood in the table before him. A treacherous train of thought, that one.

'Well, we _were_ discussing the dangerous of mixing too much Mindwort and Tickleme herbs into ones Butterbeer,' Cat explained, with a pointed look in Fred's direction. 'And then I do believe Tristan and Fred were going to discuss how to get back at Ava Adams for kicking him off the Hufflepuff Quidditch team. And then we-'

'Wait a minute,' Lily interjected. 'She _what?'_

Tristan groaned into his hands. There wasn't enough Butterbeer in the entire Three Broomsticks to make this better. He wished vainly that it was he who had passed out in Fred's place.

'It's nothing,' he grumbled at his half-empty mug. 'Just politics, that's all.'

'But you're the best Beater they've got! Nobody can hit a Bludger as hard as you. Just look at those muscles…'

'Stop it, Lily.'

'I beat him in an arm-wrestle,' Cat piped up unhelpfully.

'Of course you did, Kattala. You're just perfect at _everything,_ aren't you?'

Though it passed over Cat's head, Tristan caught something of the venom in Lily's voice. He stashed that little piece of information away for later.

'Exploding Snap,' Cat suddenly said. 'I'm _rubbish_ at that. I don't think the cards like me, they keep blowing up in my face.'

Tristan and Lily shared an identical shrug, unable to come up with any more suitable response.

'I'll get us another drink,' Cat said, nodding towards where Tristan's mug now stood empty. He'd finished it already? Must have been where that warm sensation in his fingers and toes was coming from. Before he could reply, Cat was off, leaving him alone at the table with Lily.

_Come on, Freddy. Up you get, lad. _

No such luck.

Tristan tried in vain once more to put a little bit of space between himself and Lily.

'How long are you going to keep trying to run, Tristan?' she simpered at his shoulder.

'Forever,' he growled back.

'I'm nearly fourteen years old, you can't keep treating me like a child forever.'

'You're James' little sister. I'll damn well keep doing it for an eternity, if that's what it takes.'

Lily let out a sigh. For a moment, Tristan thought she was giving up. But she merely reached for her mug and took a long, slow drink. Her eyes never left his, smouldering away over the lip of the glass with a slow-burning heat that made the midday sun outside pale in comparison.

'Tell me to go, then,' she told him, setting down her emptied cup. 'Tell me to leave you alone, and never come back. Tell me you don't want me, Tristan, and I'm gone. Forever. All you need to do, is make me believe it.'

'I-' Tristan stammered. But the moment he said it, he knew his hesitation had been too much. He had betrayed himself. Lily lunged towards him, clutching at the front of his shirt, twisting and snarling her fingers in the fabric as if it were her grip on life itself.

'I knew it! Oh, Tristan I always knew it! One day- soon, you'll see-' her elation was causing her to stumble over her words. He could practically see her heart thumping in her chest- _Merlin, no! Don't look down there!_ 'In the meantime, Tristan, I will solve your little Ava Adams problem. I'll fix it for you, you'll see. And then… afterwards…' she leaned in so that their foreheads touched, and took a deep, shuddering breath. Her scent was something floral. Her breath was cool and fresh on Tristan's cheek. He could back up no further, vexed by the wall behind him.

But with that tense, taut, moment of terror stretched thin between them, Lily turned and fled, with the abruptness of a popped bubble. In a shimmering twirl of bright red hair, she slid gracefully off of her seat and disappeared through into the crowd, lost from sight almost immediately. Tristan didn't want to dwell on just how hard or how long he looked after her. Nor would he dare examine too closely the small hint of loss he felt at her departure.

Thankfully, his solitude didn't last overlong, and Cat returned laden with three foaming mugs of butterbeer.

'Oh,' she said, looking a little put-out. 'Where did Lily go?'

'Not sure,' Tristan grumbled. 'She said something about heading off to ruin somebody else's day next.'

He was spared offering an explanation by Fred, who was clambering back up to his spot at the table, first an arm, and then the rest of his body, appearing into view.

'That. Was. _Awesome!'_ he exclaimed, grinning like the idiot he was. His smile slid away as he saw the sombre look on Tristan's face. 'What happened? What'd I miss?'

'Nothing,' Tristan grumbled. 'Nothing at all.'

* * *

'Bravo, Miss Mansfield! Simply spectacular!'

James rolled his eyes as Kingston Princely clapped and cheered like an idiot at what had ben a fairly basic manoeuvre by Odette. She'd zipped through a series of floating, glowing rings arranged in a backwards loop. James could have managed it with his eyes closed. Admittedly, she was doing it at breakneck speed, but still…

James scoffed audibly as Princely directed his broom in to give Odette a congratulatory hug. _Really?_ James couldn't wait for the day to end. He could swear this fop had spent at least half the practice getting handsy with Odette, and the other half telling her how she was the best flier he'd ever seen in his entire career. And his hair was _still_ picture-perfect, despite the fact that he'd been up there in the air for the better part of two hours.

James kicked out at the seat in front of him but acquired nothing more than a stinging toe and the sense he was being stupid. Up above, the fawning had abated, and the pair were making their way back to earth. James couldn't make out Princely's words, but from the doting, adoring tone, he didn't need to. He pushed himself to his feet and hurried over to where they touched down, eager to park himself right in between the pair of them. Or, better yet, right on Princely's toes.

'You were excellent up there, _darling,'_ James said, making sure to put emphasis on the word.

'Yea, right. Thanks, James,' she replied distractedly, barely sparing him a glance.

Not one to be dissuaded, James stepped up and slipped an arm around Odette. 'That backwards loop at the end there sure was impressive.'

James felt as if Odette kicked him in the gut, as she slipped out of his grip and flashed an irate glare in his direction. 'Could you just give us a minute, James?' she snapped, all but turning her back on him where he stood.

Princely shoved his irritating, perfectly-groomed face in James' vision. 'Yea, run along and play with your model Firebolt for a moment there, champ. The adults need to talk a moment.' And he put his arm across Odette's shoulders, leading her away from where James stood, discussing something in a low voice that periodically had her nodding, gasping, or giggling like a girl once more.

Short of something in his immediate vicinity to punch – and adamant he'd _really_ piss off Odette if he laid out Princely – James stormed over to the edge of the pitch to wait, with his arms crossed and his foot tapping rapidly on the weedy grass verge.

Eventually – and not before an irritating amount of tittering laughter flitted back and forth between them – Odette bade Kingston Princely and his immaculate hair farewell. She was graced him with a gleaming smile and _another_ hug before she finally made her way over to where James was standing. He put every bit of effort he had into maintaining his composure, but couldn't stop himself from looping an arm around Odette's waist possessively and marching them from the field at double speed.

'Slow down, James, what's the rush?'

James didn't respond.

'Aren't you going to ask me how it went?'

'I was there, I saw _exactly_ how it went.'

Odette pulled up, forcing James to stop as well. She shouldered roughly away from his touch and faced him with hands on hips.

'And just _what_ is that supposed to mean, James?'

The flush of exertion dusted her cheeks with colour, and her forehead was covered with a sheen of sweat, and yet she still managed to inject such domineering fury into her statement that it caused James to stumble.

'I- You were all over that lout the _entire_ session. You two could barely keep your hands off one another.'

As soon as he'd said the words, he wanted them back. They sounded whiny and jealous, even to his own ears.

And to Odette, it must have sounded even worse.

'Are you fucking _kidding_ me?'

'I just-'

'I busted my arse out there for two hours in the midday sun for the opportunity of a lifetime, James. For something I've dreamed of from the moment I knew I was going to be a Quidditch star. For an opportunity that might never come my way again. Weeks of preparation has gone into this! My whole _life_ has gone into this. And you're whinging that I was getting handsy with the Recruiter?'

'I didn't mean it like that-'

'Of _course_ I'm going to flirt with him, James! He's the one link I have to this role, he's the one who has my dream in the palm of his clammy, greasy little hand. I'll bat eyelids and flash cleavage and even put up with his awful cologne all _day_, if that's what it takes to land me that job. I'll damned well use every tool I've got to show him I'm the best Seeker he's ever laid his beady eyes on, and to convince him that the Magpies can't possibly go another season without me.

'All I asked, was that you stay out of the way. Was that you let me do my thing, and let it be about me. That you not butt in at every chance you get. That – for once, James Potter – you let someone _else_ have the limelight. Or is that just too much to ask?'

James knew it was an unfair question. But his pride had already taken a blow, and he wasn't about to back down.

'That's just all you're ever concerned about, isn't it, Odette? Being the centre of attention. If half the school's not gossiping about you, it's a wasted day.'

James was offered only the briefest of moments of lucidity, in which he wondered how things had gotten out of hand so suddenly, before Odette was spitting back her venomous response, waving her arms wildly around her as she yelled.

'Oh, _grow up,_ James! And get over yourself. I thought you, of all people, would support me in this. Not be some selfish, jealous little brat. I don't _need_ you for this. I don't need anybody. I'll do this for myself. _By_ myself.'

And with that, Odette stalked off. She shoved roughly past James as she made her way back up the street towards town, her feet crunching on the gravel in angry rhythm. James let her go. He wouldn't call her back, he told himself. That would be admitting he was wrong. He watched her make a left. To the Hog's Head, no doubt. Drinking, again.

James turned his back on her and strode off in the other direction, bypassing the centre of town and intending to make his way back up to the castle. There was still plenty of the day left, and the sun shone unimpeded up in the sky, but suddenly, he was feeling as if all he wanted to do was lay in bed, away from everyone. Or punch something. Or both.

His unfamiliar route took him through the main residential section of Hogsmeade. Here, the houses were quaint and tidy, little cottages organised in rows, and painted in various clashing pastel shades. The thatched rooves stood shoulder-to-shoulder, and little terrace gardens added a sprinkling of verdant life. It all could have been quite muggle, but for a few out-of-place oddities. The suspicious number of perfectly-polished broomsticks, for one. Or the purple pumpkins. Or, perhaps, the thing that looked like a stuffed cat dangling from the eaves of a squat little beige home on the corner.

Not for the first time, James wondered if there was some kind of secret competition he was not privy to, between all older witches and wizards, to see who could be the most publicly outlandish and obscure.

He turned up a broad, cleared street, paved in cobbles and easily wide enough for a Thestral-drawn cart to traverse it. Deciduous trees lining its flanks were just beginning to show the blush of autumn. James nodded to an elderly wizard out tending his front yard. He was unable to cling too tightly to the bubbling rage he felt at Odette, in the face of that bright old smile and wide, snaggle-toothed grin.

He tried, in fact, to give her no thought at all, as he made his way up the street, with the sun to his back and his gloomy shadow stretched out ahead. He tried to push the thought of her from his mind. A problem for tomorrow. He knew enough, at least, to understand that they both needed to be alone, to let their heads clear before any effort was made to pick up the pieces of their relationship. If, in fact, any still remained.

His dreary reverie was snatched away from him by the sound of a keening scream bursting out of a house to his left. Though doors were shut and blinds were drawn, the noise cut through the still day with chilling efficacy. Before he knew he was reacting, James found himself with his wand drawn, edging closer to the house in question. The rest of the street was now deserted. Even the cheery old man down the far end had turned inside. A sudden chill breeze toyed with the scattering of dust that lay across the road, and set James' arms raised in goosebumps.

It came again, that scream, and James tossed aside all pretext of caution. There had been something in it. Some note of abject terror that emanated such utter desperation, that there was nothing he could do to resist it. In his hand, his wand quivered. It seemed to be giving off waves of excitement, as he threw his shoulder against the wooden door. Mercifully, it blasted inwards at his touch.

He stumbled into an entrance hall, blinking in the sudden, dim light. A rack of shoes and a hanger of coats stood to attention by the door. The sound was coming from up ahead, through an open doorway on his right. A sudden flare of green light bathed the hallway in an eerie glow. James had only a moment to fear the worst, before the scream cut through everything once more, and stirred him to action.

He barrelled up the corridor, and through the doorway. It opened to a lounge room. The blinds had been drawn, sealing off all light but for the flaring green glow that strobed from the fireplace, revealing its source as great green flames flared up and licked the mantle, pushing their way into the room to leave the carpet singed, and a desperate, babbling blonde witch clawing futilely at the floor, trying to force her way towards the fire.

'Socks!' she was crying, sounding nothing short of deranged. 'Oh, socks! Come back to me!'

Frozen with confusion and indecision, James could only watch as the fire in the grate roared once more. A great rush of air preceded the vibrant green flames, as they leapt hungrily out into the room. A searing wave of oppressive heat had James staggering. He threw an arm up to shield his eyes, and felt sweat jumping out all over body in response.

And there, in the midst of the flames, when they were at their brightest, was a shape. An animal, of some kind, writhing and squirming. When it appeared, the witch wailed once more, pawing and scrabbling at the ground, trying to find a way in through the blaze.

But as suddenly as they flared, the flames receded, the shape within them was gone, and the witch gave that scream once more, lunging towards the fireplace and heaving desperate, racking sobs.

'Do something,' she pleaded, turning to face a slack-jawed James for the first time. 'Save him, _please_.'

James stepped slowly into the room, one eye on the simmering fireplace. The heat that it emanated remained severe. Far more than an ordinary fire ought to be giving off. He knew not what could cause a Floo portal to malfunction so dramatically, only that he feared to get any closer.

His wand, however, was longing for it.

He had to wrestle almost physically with that desire, to throw himself at the flames, _into_ the flames. To chase whatever was causing this to its source. For somehow, instinctively – though his _wand,_ he thought – he understood that there was some kind of wasting destruction at the heart of this.

He took the witch by her shoulders, dragging her backwards toward the relative safety of her sofa. He turned to face the flames once more, stowing his wand away, despite its protests. He stamped down on the excitement that still radiated from it. The eagerness it exuded was pervading his entire body. He focused on the fireplace, on the spot he'd last seen the shape within the flames.

A single iridescent spark was all the warning he got. And then the room was engulfed in fire and heat and light. James lunged towards the fireplace, into what seemed a physical barrier of searing heat. He dove across the carpet, skinning his elbows and knees as he fought onwards, though the flaring of pain was nothing compared to what roared over him from above. He could feel the heat singeing the hairs on his exposed body. He gritted his teeth against it as a sooty smudge appeared in the fireplace before him.

Socks. Whatever Socks was, it had resurfaced, and looked none too happy about it. A yowling whine was barely audible over the hissing roar that engulfed him. Only the way that James slithered so close to the floor kept him from being burned alive. He reached an arm forward. The stones of the hearth were hot, and scalded his palms. James hissed and jerked backwards. Socks gave a baleful cry and was swallowed up again momentarily.

The little animal reappeared to James' left. He gritted his teeth and lunged towards it, plunging his right arm into the depth of the blaze. The pain had not the time to overwhelm him before his hands clutched fur. There was a squirm and a yip, but James locked his fist in a death-grip and fought to roll clear of the blaze.

But, before he could, something grabbed _back._ He felt it collide with his consciousness like charging Erumpent. He knew instinctively that it was what had a hold of Socks. It was what was lurking within the Floo Network. It seized his mind as if he were nothing more than a drop of dye in a surging river. And, like the drop, James felt himself beginning to be torn apart. He could feel it, at the edges of his awareness. An eroding. A dissolution of his consciousness. An Unmaking of self.

He was powerless to fight it. He could only be battered and tossed about in its grip. He felt, with a chilling dread, neither a malevolence nor a viciousness from the entity. Only a complete and utter apathy as it tore James' sanity apart.

But something rose up to meet it. The susurrus of a thousand whispers sounded in James' head. Like the rustling of waves on the shore. And from them rose a mighty breaker. It's rustling built up until James thought he could discern words. It built up until it, not the Unmaking, took over all of James' world. It ensnared him, buffeted him, roared through him and left him flensed and raw, but unassailed.

The time between flaring of the fire to its sudden disappearance took all of a half-dozen heartbeats. Though, as James lay shaking on the floor, a squirming, whimpering Socks gripped in one hand, and a fussing, dithering Witch poring over the pair of them, it had felt closer to six lifetimes. His breath rattled and shook as it escaped him. A pounding headache drove a spike into his skull that throbbed in time with his racing pulse. The smell of burned hair filled the room, and now the pain on his back began to creep over him. In parts, the blaze had been so fierce it had burned away his t-shirt.

'Up with you boy, come on, now,' came the gentle coaxing of the blonde witch. She cradled in her arms the creature that must have been Socks – a squash-faced, now largely hairless, Kneazle who was whimpering softly and looking around the room with wild, yellow eyes.

James struggled into a sitting position, wincing where her hands made contact with his raw, exposed skin. She turned from him for a moment, drawing her wand with a shaking hand and summoning mugs of tea, a roll of bandages and a tinkling, clattering hodgepodge of salves and tinctures in little glass phials from elsewhere in the house.

'_Your soul is spoken for. The Unmaking shall not have you,'_ came a sudden whisper. James was glad the Witch was distracted, as he nearly jumped out of his damaged skin. There was no mistaking it, this time. That rising chorus of whispers had clearly come from his wand.

James looked down at where it sat, tucked into his waistband, in horror. He was unsure whether he ought to be grateful or terrified. He decided on both, and wondered at the extent of the gift – and the burden – of Death's wand.

A sudden cold touch on his shoulder, and James winced his way back to the present. The witch – whose name he still did not know – was applying some kind of a burn salve. The pressure was firm and unyielding, and a little uncomfortable. But where her hands passed, a spreading coolness followed, and much of the pain evaporated as James sat there. Socks made his tentative way around to sit at James' knee, purring softly and looking up cautiously in James' direction, as if wondering when he, too, might turn on the poor animal.

'Hold still, boy,' the witch hissed as James reached out to pet Socks.

'James.'

'I'm sorry?'

'Nice to meet you, Sorry.'

'No, I wasn't-! I mean, my name is Verily. Call me Verily.'

'Well then, it's nice to meet you, Verily.'

'No, it isn't! This was the equal-most horrific day of my life! When they boarded up my poor, dear Mittens, in the bowels of the Ministry… I left that madhouse because of this type of craziness!

'But… nevertheless… I am grateful for your intervention, James-who-won't-stop-squirming. Socks and I will be forever in your debt.'

'Don't mention it,' James waved if off, copping another _tsk_ at the sudden movement. 'This burn salve is a treat.'

'Drink this,' Verily said. She wiped her hands on a spare rag and levitated a steaming mug into James' hands. He took it a little dubiously; it smelled rather a lot like lawn clippings. 'Drink it all, else in approximately half an hour, you'll start seeing giraffes everywhere. No, no- don't ask, just drink.'

James took a sip. Sadly, it tasted much as it smelled. Additionally, it was too hot to drink right away, and so Verily waved him towards what was left of a large armchair to be seated.

'Just, try not to lean back on the fabric' she said, gesturing at James' unguent-smeared back. 'That salve stains horribly.'

James looked down at the soot-smeared, threadbare remnants of what had once been a rather ugly floral sofa.

'Right.'

Verily bustled out of the room once more, her arms laden with the bottles and phials. Socks drifted over to where James sat, and brushed up against his leg as if they'd been lifelong friends. Verily's return found James gently scratching the Kneazle behind the ear, his mug of lawn clippings steaming and forgotten beside him.

'Drink up!' Verily nagged, gesturing with her own mug. Her one smelled much more pleasant, and James looked at it longingly.

'So, you used to work at the Ministry?' James asked, as Verily sat down in the chair opposite. James didn't feel in the mood to make the trek back up to the castle just yet, and didn't particularly want to push Verily's giraffe warning, so he figured he may as well stay and make conversation while he waited. She owed him that much, at least.

'Goodness me, must you insist on dredging up such ghastly recollections?'

'Just making conversation,' James mumbled defensively.

'Oh, very well, I'll tell you!' huffed Verily. James got the impression she'd have ended up telling the story whether he asked for it or not.

'It must have been about three months ago now, they were boarding up the Department of Mysteries-'

'They _what?'_ James choked on his tea – and this time it wasn't due to the ghastly taste.

'Boarded up the Department of Mysteries, boy, do pay attention.'

'But _why?'_

'Oh, Merlin only knows. It's a _mystery, _isn't it? About bloody time, though, if you ask me. That place had been getting kookier and spookier all summer. Ever since that kerfuffle last June. But don't let the Steelhearts find you asking any questions about _that,_ heavens no! Poor old Guffins dragged off for arctic reassignment. The old codger won't last a week up there. A death sentence is what it is!'

James was all of a sudden incredibly interested in what the flighty witch Verily had to say. So much so, in fact, that he'd finished half of his grass-tea without even knowing it.

'So what was it that Guffins uncovered?' James probed. '

'Oh, I haven't the foggiest, boy. I've two brain cells to rub together, see. I don't go about asking after such things. 'S'why I'm still alive up here, and not melting into the floor like the rest of the Ministry!'

'The Ministry is _melting?!'_

'You focus on the most obscure details, boy. I haven't even got to tell you about my poor, darling Mittens.'

'Oh, yea. Right.' James set aside his empty mug and leaned further forwards, hanging on to every word Verily said.

'I believe it was a Tuesday afternoon. No, wait. A Thursday evening. Yes, it was definitely a Thursday, but I distinctly remember drinking chamomile tea, so it _must_ have been morning.

James leaned back in his seat and groaned.

'The fabric, boy! You're staining the fabric.'

James' frightened jump sent Sock skittering off to hide behind Verily's legs, where he shot James a baleful glare from the safety of the skirts of his owner.

'Anyway…'

'The Department of Mysteries,' James prompted.

'Ah yes. I had just let Mittens roam around to stretch his legs – he gets a bit cagey if he's cooped up for too long, you see – when what do I find when I'm calling him back but some hunch-backed cretin and his little workboy boarding up the entrance to the Department. Where I _distinctly_ heard Mittens mewling from not two minutes prior. No matter how nicely I asked him, the odious little man refused to let me through, and finished the job right there in my face. Oh, my poor Mittens. Mummy hasn't abandoned you, darling!'

James wasn't _quite_ sure just who she was calling to. Or if she was even in possession of her own wits at this point, but the lead seemed too good for him to pass up, so he ventured to brave a little more of the wild conversation in the hopes he might find some answers.

'So, was there anything you _did_ hear, about what was happening in the Department? Surely they must had told you all _something_ about it?'

'Oh, only the usual Ministry nonsense. "Confuse Them With Bureaucracy", that must be their motto. A failed experiment, allegedly. Sabotaged by some crackpot secret organisation. Dinkley said there was some kind of _portal._ And Harris swore black and blue that he saw a woman walk out of the Department the night it all happened, but everyone knows that Harris couldn't see the nose on her own face if it wasn't for all those Charms she has to keep applying. All utter nonsense, if you ask me.'

'Well then, Miss Verily, what _do_ you think happened?'

James braced himself for the response.

'Why, some kind of magical malfeasance, seems most likely. Did you know, that not a week after they boarded up the Department of Mysteries, that the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes had to be closed down, as well? And then the Department for the Control of Uncontrollable Magical Occurrences started spontaneously combusting. Lost three interns that week. When the floor of the Unexplained Obscurities Wing of the Department of Magical Curiosities started going all spongey, they saw the writing on the wall and sealed off three whole floors of the Lower Ministry. Too little too late, though, if you ask me. See, I'm an Esoterics Engineer. Or, I was, at least. These kinds of disturbances are my forte. If you ask me – and it seems as if you are – those nut jobs found a way to dissipate magic itself, only they never stopped to consider the consequences, and now its spreading like a cancer. They say its in the Floo, too. Merlin, but I'd hoped not. Think on that, will you! The Floo – the magical network that connects the entire Wizarding world like veins beneath your skin. And now a rotten Ministry at it's heart, pumping out this evil. Gah, but it makes me shudder just thinking on it!'

Truth was, it left James more than a little uncomfortable, too. He'd never heard of the ability to dissipate magic, but it sounded scarily close to the Unmaking he'd witnessed of the Sorting Hat. And the sealing off of the Ministry level? The sixth floor corridor instantly came to mind.

'I'd best get going,' James announced, feeling more and more uncomfortable the longer he stayed.

'Aye, best you had. I've a fireplace to brick up. Apparition only for me, now. Mark my words, boy, something's spreading. And stay out the Floo!'

The witch Verily was more than a little wild-eyed as she shooed James from the door.

'Don't forget to water the hydrangeas on your way out, dear!' she called to James.

James looked up and down the street as he hurried away from the building. There wasn't a hydrangea in sight. Crazy though the woman was, however, he couldn't help but feel there had been an ounce of truth to her ramblings. And even that was enough to leave him terrified.


	12. Twist the Knife

_A/N: Apologies for the delay - I've found it difficult to rustle up the motivation for this lately, as a lot of other things have cropped up. Hopefully now we will be back on track. Merry Christmas to all, and a Happy New Year._

* * *

'So, let me get this straight – you just dove on in there?'

'Well, sort of, yea.'

'_Into_ a woman's fireplace.'

'Well, not _all_ the way in.'

'To save a cat.'

'A Kneazle, actually.'

'Oh, sure,' Fred said, throwing his hands in the air. 'That makes it all _totally_ less insane, why didn't you say that sooner?'

James gave Fred a shove. It was mostly friendly, but a small part of him _did_ hope it would be enough to _accidentally_ send him tumbling back down the staircase that they were currently climbing. No such luck, and instead Fred joined in with Cat, Cassie and Clip in showering James with an array of looks ranging all the way from disbelieving, to impressed, to incredulous and back again.

'Did you at least water her hydrangeas?' Cat asked, with a serious expression. Thankfully, her eyebrows had grown back. Although, they were now an odd shade of purple.

'There were no hydrangeas!' James said with exasperation.

'This woman sounds a touch batty,' Cassie added. 'Are you sure you can believe _anything_ she says?'

'I _told_ you, what she described sounded just like what happened to the Sorting Hat. And what is happening at the Ministry could be happening right here at the castle, too! If Rain was here, she'd back me up. By the way, where _is_ Rain?'

'Hello!'

'Argh-! _Merlin,_ Rain, I _told_ you not to do that!'

'I was practising sneaking,' she explained brightly, falling into step at James' elbow, where she had seemed to appear from thin air. 'I got lost again on my way up here. I swear the castle changes when I'm not looking.'

'Yea,' James mumbled. 'It does. One day, I'll draw you a map.'

'Er… will _that_ be on the map?'

All five of them had stopped outside the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom to which they had been travelling. Rain's outstretched arm was pointing directly at the entranceway to the classroom.

Or, where the entranceway _had_ been, the last time James had checked. Where it had been for the entire four-and-a-bit years that he had attended Hogwarts.

Now, all that remained was a stretch of bricks in the wall looking markedly fresher than those surrounding. A door-shaped spot conspicuously without adornment, looking so fresh that it could have been erected earlier that day. As far as James knew, it probably had.

'Uh-oh,' Fred mumbled. 'You jinxed it, Rain. Get ready for another trip on James' crazy train.'

'Ooh, I love trains. Where are we going?'

'Do you think it's a puzzle?' Clip asked, taking a tentative step towards the blank stretch of wall. A few of their classmates who had arrived earlier, and were milling about in confusion, parted to let him past. None seemed eager to approach. 'Double Defence with Ravenclaw is usually a practical class. Perhaps it's a trick. We _were_ practising Blasting Hexes just last week.'

James shrugged, drew his wand and levelled it at the fresh spot of wall. 'Stand back,' he suggested. Clip didn't need telling twice, and hurried back out of harm's way.

'_Bombarda Max-'_

'_Expelliarmus!'_

Something with the force of a rampaging troll punched James in the small of his back. The blow sent him flying forwards, sprawling across the floor. His want leapt traitorously from his scrabbling fingers and flew back over his head and up the corridor behind him.

Slow to push himself pack up to his feet, James had one hand wrapped around his aching midriff. 'What kind of a cowardly, spineless, goblin-kissing, troll-faced, son of a – oh _hello_ Professor Meadows. That was you?'

'Sorry Potter,' she growled. She was out of breath, and had clearly been running – at least insofar as her wooden leg would let her run. 'But I couldn't let you cast a spell on that door. I'm not much of an architect, but I think the castle works better with this fifth-floor corridor still intact, don't you?'

James looked around, wide-eyed. 'Er, yea. I guess. What would–'

'Enough questions. Class is down on the second floor today. The old Charms classroom that nobody uses anymore.'

'Not the one with the singing chairs,' someone groaned from the back of the group.

'The very one,' ceded Professor Meadows. 'But they're all quiet at the moment. I think they might be… sleeping? Whatever it is, when you lot get to the classroom, keep a lid on it. Potter, because I'm absolutely positive you won't be able to keep that yappy, chatty mouth of yours shut, you'll spend the lesson standing at the back of the room.'

'But _Professor–'_

'Zip it. Consider it your punishment for nearly destroying half of the castle and killing a dozen of your classmates.'

'Oh. Right. Well, I guess that's fair.'

The professor handed James' wand back to him, grip first. 'And you can help me down to the second floor as well, Potter. I've been up and down like a whore's drawers all morning. Which is not much fun when you've only got one leg.'

'I can only imagine.'

'Keep being a nuisance in my class and you won't have to. I'll give you some first-hand experience.'

A few of his classmates chuckled. Fred shot James an apologetic look as the rest of the group turned away to head on to the lesson, leaving James behind, feeling rather sorry for himself, with a scowling Professor Meadows at his side.

'Good,' the professor said, when the last of the students had disappeared around the corner. 'I really just wanted to get you alone, Potter.'

Sensing the prickly mood dissipating, James smirked.

'_Professor,_ that's most inappropriate.'

He earned a swift cuff around the ears for his trouble.

'Idiot. You know, I'd be only too happy to carry out that threat and remove one of those gangly legs of yours, and jam it so far up your backside your breath would smell like feet.'

'No fair. I talked to Teddy for you, I thought we were good.'

Professor Meadows sighed. 'We are, Potter. I'm just having fun. You young kids are so sensitive these days.'

Shrugging off the dig, James waggled his eyebrows suggestively. 'So then. How is Teddy doing?'

The elbow to the ribs he received by way of answer left him coughing and gasping for breath. 'I don't– don't know what he sees in you.'

'How's Odette?' Professor Meadows countered with a knowing smile.

'Is it my turn to elbow _you_ now?'

'Try it, Potter. I dare you.'

Just this once, James chose the better part of valour, and instead proffered his arm to help Professor Meadows as they arrived at the top of the staircase.

'You know,' she said, accepting James' help. 'Holly Brooks takes a five-a.m. swim every morning in the shallows of the Black Lake. If... you know… somebody wanted to bump into her for a private conversation…'

'Please, do not tell me that _this_ is what you wanted to talk about.'

James recalled only too well, just how Professor Meadows' "helping" had gone last time around, when she'd tried none-too-subtly to get he and Holly to make nice.

'You're right, it's not. Listen, Potter. I need you to tell me exactly what happened last weekend in Hogsmeade. As much as you can remember, don't leave out any detail.'

And so James did, relieved that he had found somebody who believed him at last. They made their slow, measured way down the staircase, with Professor Meadows leaning heavily on James and holding him close, ostensibly for support, but more than likely it was so she could ask short, sharp questions in a hushed whisper without any danger of being overheard.

The story lasted an entire flight of stairs. On the next landing, the professor doubled over, pretending to massage what remained of her left thigh. The motion pulled James in so that their cheeks touched. In the close proximity, James noted a dangerous glimmer in Professor Meadows' eye.

'And what do you make of it all, then? About this _"Unmaking"_?'

'It scares me,' James replied, honestly. 'I feel like nobody is taking it seriously.'

'Us Hufflepuffs know, Potter, that sometimes, being afraid is the best response. I think this is one of those times.'

'What do we do?'

But instead of answering, Professor Meadows pulled back a little, and spoke in a much louder voice. 'Potter, my ankle has popped out. Could you shove it back in for me?'

James looked on in confusion, as Professor Meadows hiked up one side of her robe, revealing the delicately carvings on her wooden leg.

'It looks fine to–'

Professor Meadows shoved his head down, and then bent over to join him.

'Honestly, boy, you're more dense than a Thickening Solution, and twice as slow. You should thank Merlin you weren't in Slytherin.'

Up close, Professor Meadows voice barely broke above a whisper. She grabbed James by the hand and made as if showing him how to mend the delicate joint where the foot of her wooden leg met the calf.

'I've still got a few old contacts at the Ministry, Potter,' she hissed in a hurried voice. 'Ex-Aurors who refused induction into the cult that became the Steelhearts. They were none-too-happy when they shut down the Auror division, and were forced to take up other jobs. But they've a knack for listening in where they're not wanted, and finding out things they oughtn't to know. They say that the Ministry is succumbing to just what you described to me. They validated the crazy old witch's stories. Almost to the letter. Something is happening in the Ministry, James. Something they are trying desperately to cover up.'

James' eyes bulged. 'Then we need to tell Renshaw! It's happening here, too!'

He'd almost leapt to his feet in excitement at Professor Meadows' words. She grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and yanked him back down, covering the action by slapping his hands back onto a series of grooves in the wood of her ankle.

'She already _knows_ James. Why do you think I'm trying so hard to keep this conversation quiet?'

'You don't trust her?' the revelation was like a body blow, punching the wind from James' lungs.

'I don't know, yet. What I do know, is that she's actively discouraging us from asking about it. Even me, the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. This should me my jurisdiction. And she's asking a lot of questions, Potter. About you, and about Miss Rain.'

James swallowed. He had to fight the urge to straighten and look up and down the staircase for prying eyes. He let Professor Meadows guide his hands into a small groove in the polished wood, where he pretended to press the socket back into place.

'What do we do?' he asked, as Professor Meadows grabbed him by the arm and brought him back to his feet.

'I'm not sure how it happened,' she said loudly. Were some of the portraits appearing to listen in more keenly than usual? 'But I should definitely be more _careful._ And make sure I don't go where I'm not supposed to.'

James played along, nodding and returning their conversation to idle chatter as they descended the last staircase together, but the chill sweat that was beading on the nape of his neck was an uncomfortable companion all the way down.

'Say, Professor,' he said as they arrived at the classroom. 'Those carvings on your wooden leg, did you do them yourself?'

'Sure did,' she replied. 'Spent weeks cooped up in my room after the accident, moping about how miserable my new life would be. Had nothing better to do, so I carved them in.'

James opened the door and gestured the professor through.

'They're exquisite. I especially like the birds–'

'Zip it, Potter. I'm not letting you off your punishment. To the back of the class with you, and keep that brown nose facing the wall for the duration of the lesson.'

James sighed. It had been worth a shot. And despite her stern tone, there was the shadow of a smile of Professor Meadows features, as James traipsed slowly to the back of the room, allowing his mind to wander, and get lost among disappearing corridors and sealed, secret rooms.

His musings followed him all the way into his dreams that night, where they hounded him in the form of visions of locked doors, and dead-end corridors contorting into twisted mazes. The faces of his friends swam through the dreamscape, coalescing only fleetingly until Cassie's face became real, her voice panicked as she urged him, shook him bodily…

'-wake up! James, _please_ wake up!'

'What- how- _Cassie?'_ James scrambled into an upright position, scrubbing sleep from his eyes and blinking stupidly at the glaring wandlight Cassie had lowered in his face. 'What are you _doing_ here?'

Cassie's face was distraught, her features twisted in a mask of worry, her eyes red and her usually immaculate hair a bird's nest tousled around her face. 'It's Rain, James. She's missing.'

'No. She can't be.'

'I'm telling you, _she is!'_

'Are you sure she hasn't just… gone to the bathroom, or something?'

'She's been gone forty minutes.'

'Well, we did have curry for dinner…'

Cassie clipped him around the ear.

'Fine, I'm up. I'm coming. Just let me get dressed first?'

'We don't have time, James, just wear your pyjamas, let's go.'

'Er, I don't really wear pyjamas, Cassie.'

'Wha- ew! Gross, James.' Cassie leapt back from the bed as if it were a thing Cursed. She hastily stalked from the door without looking back, leaving James to stumble his way into a shirt and shorts and stagger from the room, still shaking off sleep's last clutches as he arrived in the deserted common room.

'What time is it?' he said, stifling a yawn.

'Just after four. _Hurry,_ James.'

James sheepishly withdrew his hand from a jar of Every Flavour Beans left out on a table and scurried after Cassie.

'So, where do we start?' James asked, as they arrived out on the landing together.

'I don't know! Cassie wailed. 'She's been gone so long; she could be anywhere!'

James leaned out over the balustrade before him, looking down betwixt and between the maze-like array of staircases slowly shifting and grinding below them. A handful of corridors became dozens, and then scores. And each one with its own little series of side-passages and doorways. It was hard not to feel daunted by the task. The castle had seemed so… _finite_ ever since James had learned it's layout. But in the face of the task before them, it appeared to be endless.

'Well lets… lets approach it logically,' James suggested. This perked Cassie up somewhat.

'Logically _is_ the most effective method way, after all.'

'We can start in the Ravenclaw tower, and go from there. We can work out a system.'

'Oh, I do like systems.'

'That's my girl. Let's start outside your common room. We can work down the tower from there, and then floor by floor.'

Cassie nodded, and fell in step behind James as he strode purposefully towards the Ravenclaw common room.

'What if a staircase has moved, and she's fallen off a landing, James? What if she slips through a missing stair?'

'She'll be fine, Cassie.'

'Oh, James I _knew_ I should have kept a closer eye on her. I knew something was up. She's been screaming in her sleep all week. Having the worst night-terrors. "She can't find me," she keeps saying. "Don't let her find me." What if they found her, James?'

'She'll be fine,' James repeated. But this time, even he could hear the uncertainty in his voice. Images flashed through his mind: a broken body, laying upon the floor among shattered glass and twisted metal. The skin writhing as if alive. Waves of power radiating off of her.

_Impossible! The witch died._ She'd given up her life protecting Rain, in the end – ironic though that was. James still couldn't find it in his heart to offer much sympathy.

The twisting passage of the Ravenclaw tower offered up no answers to their search. They checked every side-passage and broom closet, behind every portrait and in every hidden niche known to the pair of them. As the search wore on, James' heart began to beat faster. He held his breath as he threw open each door, dreading to see a pool of red-gold hair splayed upon the floor. Or another broken, twisted body–

'James, over here!'

James sprinted up the corridor a short way to where Cassie was crouched with her head in what James knew to be a false fireplace. She slowly stood upright, and glinting moonlight winked off a shiny, metallic object held suspended in one hand. Rain's locket.

'Bloody hell,' James breathed. An icy grip of fear wrapped its fingers around his heart as he studied the locket. The clasp was broken, apparently torn free as Rain had entered the hidden slide behind the false back of the fireplace. A slide which led all the way down to the ground floor.

'Do we follow?' Cassie asked, her voice a breathless whisper.

'Of course.'

'I'm scared, James.'

James thought back to Professor Meadows' words. Sometimes being afraid was wise. He took Cassie's hand in his and led the way down the tight, compressed spirals of the slide. The wind that rushed by his ears hammered akin to the racing heartbeat in his chest.

The passage spat them out into a crawl space above an empty classroom. The trapdoor ahead of them that led down into the room proper was open. A silvery rope ladder spilling forth spoke to its recent use.

The pair scurried down it. Cassie clutched tightly to James' left arm. He drew his wand with the other, holding it forth before them both. The classroom they'd entered was poorly lit through a row of grimy windows. Moonlight was blocked out by a tangle of thorny bushes crowding the glass. They hurried through the sentinel rows of empty desks. Cassie squealed as her hip brushed past one and the scrape of its legs upon stone ground through the stillness of the night. Up ahead, the door was ajar, and a faint tapping sound could be heard coming through it, and a puddle of warm, buttery lamp-light was spilling into the room.

They advanced together slowly. As they approached, a soft, rhythmic tune could be heard beneath the tapping. Words. A chant of some kind, perhaps. The voice was soft and feminine and familiar. Neither James nor Cassie needed to speak to communicate that they'd found Rain. James felt Cassie tense. Her grip on his arm tightened, and she drew her own wand. Her breathing reached a fever pitch at his shoulder as they stepped through the door together.

They were in another, adjoining classroom. Smaller, and neater. Obviously regularly used. A few scraps of parchment littered the floor, and a pile of scrolls were balanced precariously on the teachers' desk.

The light, however, did not come from lamps, as James had surmised, but instead from over a hundred little glass spheres, roughly the size of his fist, that Rain was in the process of arranging throughout the room in a series of spiralling vortices, centred on a small, cleared area in which she stood.

This close, they could make out the words that she intoned, over and over without surcease: 'Rivers flow into the sea; hearts pump blood we cannot see; magic veins linked at the core; see this spell opens the door.'

'_Rain!'_ Cassie cried, but she received no response.

Rain's eyes were open, though they were wide and unfocused, trancelike in their vacant staring state. She stood amidst a whirlpool of tiny glass spheres, spinning and whirling lazily around her, while every few seconds, she'd raise her arm and one would break off from the group, affixing itself to the wall, or floor, or ceiling, adding to the vortex pattern of warm, winking like that was unfolding all across the room.

'It's kind of… beautiful,' Cassie breathed, taking it all in.

Although James was inclined to agree, he also had a bad feeling about letting Rain finish whatever ritual she was invoking.

He made his way forward, taking great care to not touch any of the spheres. When he neared Rain, he had to duck and weave his way through the orbs that surrounded her, using every one of his Quidditch reflexes to avoid behind hit. Cassie gasped as he made it through, and dove towards Rain.

The moment he touched her, a wave of soft tinkling sounds filled the room, as the levitating spheres crashed to the ground. Her body went limp at his touch, and he nearly buckled as her entire weight fell upon him. Cassie hurried in to help, and helped lay her gently on the floor, bundling up a stack of scrolls to use as a makeshift pillow.

Her eyes remained glazed and unseeing. James would have worried, were not her lips still moving with the ghost of that ominous rhyme. Cassie, thinking quickly, reached forward and gently fastened the locket around Rain's neck. The moment she gave a whispered '_Reparo,'_ to fix the clasp, Rain's body jerked, and her eyes snapped into focus.

'J-James? Cassandra? Wh-where am I? What's happening?'

'We were hoping you might be able to tell us that,' James replied, gesturing about the room as Rain slowly levered herself upright.

She took it all in, clutching tightly to Cassie's hand, and her face grew more uncertain and afraid the longer she looked.

'I don't know James. I don't like it.'

'Neither do I.'

'Did- did _I_ do it?'

The plaintive tone in Rain's voice broke James' heart, but he nodded softly. Rain raised a hand to her lips, and Cassie increased her soothing efforts, gently stroking Rain's hair and whispering softly into her ear.

'I don't like it, James,' Rain repeated. 'We should leave.'

'Agreed. So, you don't remember anything, then?' Cassie helped Rain to her feet. The latter shook her head softly, her hair falling in a curtain across her face as she did so.

'The last thing I recall is going to bed. No- wait, there were dreams. Nightmares… I–'

'Cassie told me about them,' James said, holding up a hand to prevent Rain the agony of reliving them.

'I'm sorry James,' Rain whispered. 'Have I– is this wrong? Have I done evil?'

James smiled sadly. 'No, Rain. We know you're not evil.'

Her return smile was weak and watery.

'You two head on up to bed,' James continued. 'I'll meet you down at breakfast later. I've got one last errand to run.'

Cassie nodded, leading a flagging Rain up the staircase with ample use of the balustrade for support. Outside, the pale grey of false dawn was beginning to kiss the distant horizon. The soft receding of nights dark clutches, and the fading of all but the brightest of stars low in the eastern sky.

James found a spot hidden from view, after closing and locking the door to the classroom they'd just vacated. He didn't need to wait long to hear footsteps ascending from the dungeons below.

He hastily flicked through and discarded several opening lines. _Fancy seeing you here,_ seemed too cliché. _I thought cold-blooded creatures only got up with the sun,_ seemed a little confrontational. He wanted something snappy, something to give him the upper hand, something–

'Potter, stop squatting behind that statue. It looks as if you're using that niche for a toilet.'

So much for that.

'Holly Brooks, fancy seeing you here–'

_Dammit._

'Quit the crap, Potter. I know Meadows told you I swim in the mornings. Though I'm surprised you were so desperate to see me that you couldn't even wait a couple days.'

He should have known that the pair of them were in on it together.

'How did you know Meadows told me, if you didn't suggest it to her in the first place?' James shot back, thrilled with himself for his quick thinking, confirmed by the flicker of astonishment that scampered across Holly's face, her eyes darting away to a shadowy corner of the Entrance Hall and failing to meet his own.

'If you just came here to argue, Potter…'

'I didn't.'

James stepped forward out of the shadows, placing himself in Holly's path. She mirrored his step into the light, and the pale, ashen glow of the pre-dawn allowed him to see her fully. Moonlight gave ivory skin a translucent shimmer. Long, dark hair tied back in a tail fell over her shoulder like a wreath of shadow. Pale grey eyes shone, almost colourless. The centrepiece of her monochromatic figure.

But more than that, James looked for signs of the Holly Brooks he knew. The wide-eyed innocence. The playful cunning smile. The cheeky grin, and the sudden, blushing shyness.

All were gone. Eroded away by the harshness of the path she had trod. Leaving a raw, exposed core of angles and hard edges. A guarded, calculating gaze. Hunched, defensive shoulders. Full lips drawn taught into a half-sneer.

He tried to block out the hard edges. Tried to push aside the rumours he had heard. The things she had done. What she had dragged her body through. It hurt even more because James had to live with the truth that he had been the one to set her on this path.

'Anyone home, Potter? if I wanted to be ogled, I'd walk through the common room wearing my towel.'

James shook his head. 'Sorry, I was just…'

'Yes?'

'Just thinking about an old friend.'

'Don't get sentimental on me, Potter. I assume you're stalking me because you wanted to talk about something?'

'I wanted to talk about Rain–'

'Good. She's why I had Professor Meadows tell you where to find me.'

'You what?'

'Follow me.'

Without another word, Holly spun and marched back across the Entrance Hall towards what James knew to be a rather roomy broom closet. Better that than the classroom James had just left. He followed along in her wake, and received a scoff and a roll of the eyes when he tried to shoot her a playful look as they stepped into the closet together.

'_Lumos,' _Holly muttered, and a pair of glowing globes beaded at the tip of her wand and pinched off to float above their heads. They provided the only light to the small, windowless space, and bathed everything in a warm golden glow. Holly chose an upturned bucket to sit upon, while James dragged out a dusty old chest and perched himself on the edge.

'I think Rain is in danger,' James blurted out. He studied Holly's face for any sense of alarm.

But the shock was all his own as she crossed her arms and leaned forwards.

'James, you are so _damnably_ naïve when it comes to this. To her. Rain isn't _in_ danger. She _is_ the danger. How can you not see that?'

'I– _what?_'

'Don't you see? Did you never think it was a little suspicious that she was _always_ at the centre of what was going wrong, each year?'

'You could have said the same thing about my father when he was at school, but that doesn't make _him_ evil!'

They'd started the conversation in a whisper, but James was already bordering on a shout. He'd leaned over on his perch and was glaring at Holly, whose resolute, hard-eyed stare showed no hint of being worn down.

'It's not that simple, James,' Holly said, shaking her head.

James paused. He'd raised a finger to point accusingly at Holly, but it hung, frozen, in mid-air as an understanding stole over him.

'You know something,' he breathed tentatively. Cautiously, as if by his utterance alone he was making real some of his darkest fears.

'I saw… things, James.'

'Tell me. Now.' His level tone had become dangerously quiet once more.

Even so, Holly appeared unfazed by it. Her only indication of nerves was to pick up a strand of her hair and place it in her mouth, sucking thoughtfully on the tip. It was a gesture so achingly familiar to the "old" Holly, that James almost forgot the gravity of the moment they shared.

'Do you recall at the end of third year, when Rain and I duelled?'

'Well enough.' This was a half-truth. James hadn't been there to witness, having been instead engaged in fighting what had been the Maleficent Malady trying to breach Hogwarts walls. But others had filled him in. Powerful magic beyond what either ought to have been capable of. The birth of the legend and the fame – or rather infamy – of Holly Brooks, and the attendant worshipping that came with it.

'I used magic I shouldn't have, James. I used a combination of spells that Professor– that I had been taught but told to keep secret. That I wasn't ready for. I disagreed. But I was wrong. It was the only reason I was able to beat her, but it almost cost me everything. Before I stepped out of her shadow, I became so hopelessly _lost_ within her, that I couldn't tell where her consciousness ended and mine began. I almost didn't make it.

'But when I did finally step forth, I'd seen things. Lived her life, through her eyes. As if I was there when it was happening. As if I'd done it all in that very moment, a lifetime of memories crashing down all at once–'

'And you've only decided to tell me all of this _now?'_

'Please, James, don't interrupt. And besides, I thought she was gone forever when she was taken last year. It rendered the point moot, as far as I was concerned.'

James could tell Holly was mulling over what to say next. The way she chewed nervously on her lower lip, her fingers fidgeting with the baggy sleeve of her jumper. Even the mask of distaste she wrapped around herself whenever she was near James had melted away.

'I saw – no, I didn't just _see._ It was as if I _did_ – I shot you down from the sky and stole your Invisibility Cloak in first year, James. In Rain's body. During the final task of F.A.R.T club. At eleven years old, I cast the _Imperius_ curse on Teddy Lupin. I stole something from the depths of the ocean. From Atlantis itself… something into which I could funnel the wasting illness that had befallen me. A sickness that was eating me from within. I held the rotting skull of a dead child, once worshipped as a god, in the palm of my hand. And I laughed as the curse that she had held at bay Infected hundreds, channelling their magical energy into me. I could feel them… dying. Each one. Their memories, they fed me. Made me stronger…'

Finally, it was too much for Holly to take. And she broke down before James' eyes, visibly crumpling, folding around herself as if each word she had just spoken had torn free a hole in her breast, leaving a gaping, raw wound that whistled and rattled with the sound of her sobs.

Instinctively, James moved forward to wrap his arms around Holly. She didn't resist, didn't move at all, save for the gentle shake of the occasional racking sob, the only sound in the room that interspersed James' own hushed litany of, 'No, it can't be. No,' over and over again.

They stayed that way for a long time. Until light from outside began to leak in through the crack under the door. James tried again and again to process what Holly had told him, but his brain rejected it each time.

Eventually, Holly straightened, and gently lifted James' arms from her shoulders. Tears still stained her cheeks, glistening softly in the gentle light. The frosty ice of her pale grey eyes had melted, leaving them swimming with tears.

'All this time, James,' she whispered. 'You– _we_ have been fighting on the wrong side.'

'It can't be,' James breathed, and he noted the brittle, fragile quality of his quivering voice.

'There's more,' Holly said, wiping her cheeks with the heel of her palm. 'I saw the end of first year, when I lived it through her. It was hazy, because she was so incapacitated, but it was… _different_ from how I remember it. I'm not entirely sure how, but nothing I remember makes sense.'

James perked up. 'Do you think it means that everything else you saw was a lie, too?'

'No, James. I think it means somebody altered our memories.'

'Who– not Rain, surely?'

'It would make sense. What if we saw what she did? If we saw her Imperius Teddy into doing… whatever it was he did to her? What if we knew the truth.'

There had to be some other explanation. There _must_ be. James couldn't believe what he was hearing. Would Holly lie to him? Almost certainly, but this… This was too raw, too real to be faked.

'It's why I tried to stop you at the end of last year,' Holly continued. 'Even though what you were going to do seemed an impossible task, somehow, a part of me knew you'd succeed. You always do. And I… I couldn't let that happen. I figured you already hated me anyway, so burning the bridge wasn't much of a loss. I guess, at least, now you know the truth.'

James reached out towards Holly once more, sensing an opportunity, a moment that hung on the edge of a knife.

'Holly, you must know, I don't – I've never _hated_ you.'

'Stop, James. Please.' And with those words, and her pushing back to stand up before him, James felt the moment crumbling to a thousand pieces all around him. Holly took a step past James and lay a hand on the rough wood of the door. She turned back to look at James with sad eyes. 'Don't say it, James. I'm not ready to hear it. I don't think I'm ready– I don't think I'm strong enough, to stop hating you just yet.'

And with that, Holly Brooks turned and walked out of his life once more, the departure all the more bitter for how desperately close he had felt to bringing her back.

And her leaving, coupled with the knowledge she'd imparted about Rain's duplicity left James more alone and confused than he'd ever been in his life.


	13. Every Ending Needs a Beginning

'James, do you have the notes from yesterday's Arithmancy lesson?'

'James, was it phases of the moon that affect the strength of magical bondings, or was it distance from the sun?'

'James, what was the incantation for the Knee-Twisting Hex?'

'Oi, James, Professor Meadows just walked through the common room, naked!'

'What-? Where?'

'Hah! I _knew_ you fancied her.' Fred was grinning triumphantly, with a balled-up piece of parchment clutched in his fist, clearly the next step on his endless mission to gain James' attention.

'Who _doesn't_ have a thing for her?' Cat sighed wistfully, gazing out the window of the common room. 'She's gorgeous.'

James leaned back in his chair, letting the conversation once more drift uninterrupted over his head. He, Fred, Cat and Clip had been spending the afternoon studying in the common room for a grand total of _three_ upcoming tests the following week. But James couldn't even recall if it had been an effective session, let alone which subjects they were currently working on, as his mind had been distracted – as it had been for the past fortnight – on his fateful early-morning meeting with Holly Brooks.

_She's changed._ It was the single argument that James could resurrect in Rain's defence. In his _own_ defence. Whatever happened to her when she was taken from them last year had changed her entirely. Everybody could see that she was a completely different person. It was more than just the loss of her memories; even as she regained a shadow of her former self, the person she was becoming was someone entirely different from the Rain that James had known prior.

And so he clung to this fact. Like a drowning man clutched at a piece of flotsam. Even though the waves of his doubt assailed him, and threatened to drag him down. For the fact remained that this belief did nothing to exonerate her past actions. That it didn't excuse anything she'd done. Anything that James had helped her to do.

Could she have been in league with the Desecrator? Could she have _been_ the Desecrator? But no – the attacks were still happening, and Rain remained within Hogwarts. But James had scrawled the timeline of the past four years as best he could on a collection of parchment, and there were several glaring concerns, several suspicious coincidences…

He didn't know what to do, only that he couldn't – _wouldn't_ – tell the others just yet. _She's changed,_ he told himself. She'd show her innocence, he was certain of it. He just needed to give her time.

'Earth to James, _hello-o._' Cat's face was barely an inch from James' own. Her wide, blue eyes were studying him curiously. 'I bet your head is _full_ of Wrackspurts right now. I can practically taste them in the air.'

'Erm… gross?'

'They taste like batteries, actually.'

'Batteries?'

'A muggle thing.'

'Guys, I think we're getting a _touch_ distracted here,' Clip piped up from the chair opposite James.

'Oh, right.' Cat shot a furtive glance over her shoulder, quickly leaned in and licked James' forehead, and then shot back down to her seat. For his part, James just accepted it with a shrug.

'Have you got the piece on moon phases, James?' Clip prompted again.

'Er, yea, it's here somewhere…' James riffled through the messy stack of notes he'd discarded in front of himself. 'Got it. "The strength of any magical bond is strongly dependent on the phase of the moon at the time of casting of the spell." Is that it?'

'Keep going,' Clip urged, scribbling away furiously on his own parchment. Fred, looking beyond bored, was trying to charm his quill to write rude words on _his_ parchment which he had stealthily affixed to Cat's back.

'Erm, right… "Phases where the moon is more dominant, particularly waxing gibbous and Full Moons, are thought to be best to create magical bonds. Of course, this stands for malign as well as benign bondings, and this created much consternation among Aurors at these times of the month, when attempting to curtail the waves of _Imperius_ curses cast by Death Eaters in both Wizarding wars."'

'It's because the moon erodes our sense of self,' Cat added airily. 'The light of the moon is entirely reflected from the sun. It has no true life of its own, and so its influence is similar on our magical beings. It removes some of our independence, some of the walls which keep us in. They say that the Blue Moon is the most dangerous time, and we are at our most vulnerable.'

'Blue moon?' Fred asked. 'I've never seen the moon _blue._'

'It's not the colour,' Clip explained. 'It means two full moons in a single calendar month. It's supposedly a powerful magical occurrence. We covered in Astronomy last week.'

'Oh, well that explains it. I always fall asleep during Astronomy…'

With the others no longer calling him to action, James slipped back into the dark, twisting reverie that seemed his constant companion nowadays, and let their words drift by, unheeded.

'C'mon,' Fred eventually announced. 'Let's go get some dinner. Maybe that will cheer James up.'

'I'm fine,' James mumbled, fooling nobody.

'You _have _been rather mopey lately,' Cat added, scrutinising him with narrowed eyes.

'It's just all this schoolwork,' James lied. 'I'm feeling snowed under, that's it.'

'Rubbish,' Fred continued to probe. 'You barely said a word at Quidditch practice all last week. Just grunted and threw rocks at us.'

'I'm _fine,_ alright? Let it go! Can you lot not leave me in peace for five minutes without badgering me?'

James shoved himself up out of his armchair and stormed from the common room, not waiting for his friends to join him on the way down to dinner. He heard a mumble from Fred as he departed, something about Odette. James hesitated for a moment, but it was better that they thought him sulking over his relationship – or what was left of it – than find out the real reason, he told himself.

The portrait hole was shoved open rather rudely, and he ignored the protestations and reprimands that chased him all the way down to the sixth-floor landing from the Fat Lady. He wrapped his anger around himself. Making of it a cloak, one fit to ward off any passers-by, any who thought to trouble him with the burden of their presence. Any who–

'Hello James!'

'_Aii!_ Merlin, Rain, stop that!'

'Ooh, I'm getting good, aren't I?'

'No! You can't go around sneaking up and goosing people. You're likely to get Hexed.'

A flicker of uncertainty skittered across Rain's face. James had done little to take the anger out of his words. Truth was, Rain's newfound love of sneaking around and stalking him had fallen into ominous light, indeed. James had been doing his best to ignore her, the past couple of weeks.

'I- is it not _normal?'_ she asked again, in a quavering voice. Her earnest worry calmed James somewhat, even as a part of him wondered if she was using some sort of spell to manipulate his thoughts.

'It's fine, Rain. I'm just on edge, that's all.'

They continued down the staircase, falling into step with the steady trickle of students heeding the call of their collective stomachs and making their way down to dinner.

'I'm going exploring tonight,' Rain suddenly said, after a protracted silence.

'You're _what?'_ again, too sharply. Enough to make Rain flinch involuntarily away. James' internal strife redoubled. _How_ could this scared little girl be what Holly told him she was?

'E-exploring. I wanted to practise my sneaking. I am having trouble sleeping at the moment, so I was going to sneak out after hours. Cassandra tells me that you're the best at sneaking around the castle of _anybody_. I thought you might like to come along.'

'I- I can't, Rain. I've got to study, tonight.'

'Oh. I see.'

There was obvious disappointment in her voice, and James was beginning to worry that he'd been too harsh, when she spoke up once more.

'Is it a girl-friend think? Like before?'

'What-? No, it's an _I'm busy_ thing. That's all. Anyway, I just remembered I left my wand in the common room. I'm going to go back and get it.'

'That's fine. I'll wait for you!'

'Don't. I'll see you later, Rain.'

'Oh. Bye, James.'

James didn't see the sad little look on her face, or the single hand half-raised in farewell as he spun and tore off back up the stairs, eager to find a spot to hide out and avoid _all_ of his friends for the rest of the night.

But his plan worked for less than a day, as the follow morning – a bright and crisp Saturday – saw he and Fred making their way down to the Quidditch Pitch together to get in one final practice before their first match of the season, against Ravenclaw. The sun was already well above the distant mountains, and the pale, watery light of its morning glow was glimmering coyly atop the surface of the lake. A wintry breeze was blowing down from the mountains, dragging its fingers through the Forbidden Forest and pervading the air with a rich, earthy scent of pine and humus. Though it was barely strong enough to stir the hairs on James' arm, it nonetheless brought chill promise of the colder months to come.

'Why don't you play Carissa as the sole Enabler, and Preston and yourself both play as Finishers?' Fred asked, referring to the different roles within the Chaser position.

James rubbed his jaw, squinting up at the stadium ahead of them as he ran through the situation in his mind. He wouldn't admit it, but the presence of Quidditch looming suddenly so close was giving him a much-needed distraction from all of the gloomy moping of the past couple weeks.

'Wouldn't work,' he finally said. 'Carissa's arm strength is too weak. We'd be severely limiting the number of manoeuvres we could perform if all of the play was funnelled through her alone.'

Fred gave a noncommittal grunt. 'Are you _sure_ she was the right decision? It feels a bit like we're limiting ourselves.'

'It was the right decision,' James replied flatly.

'All I'm saying, is that I saw Gen Sweeting practicing the other night…

'Not happening, Fred.'

'We don't have to like her–'

'But that's where you're wrong. There's seven of us on a team. That's it. We spend more time with each other throughout the year than almost anybody else in the school. It's like a little family. At least, that's the way I see it. Maybe I don't have to think she's the best thing since the Cheering Charm, but I need to at least _respect_ her, Fred. And you saw what she was like at the trial. The case is closed, Fred. Drop it.'

Fred shrugged, and adjusted the way he carried his broom on his shoulder. 'You're the boss. Tell me, then, O Fearless Leader, how do you plan to turn this weakness into a strength?'

Up ahead, the entrance to the Quidditch stadium gaped open and inviting, the stretch of charmed, manicured grass a perfect, verdant green, the goal hoops a rich, burnished gold. Home. James simply smiled. 'You're just going to have to wait and see.'

Three hours later, and James had called an end to the session. The teams' stomachs, more than anything, had signalled that time was up, for lunch time was upon them, and James had pushed them hard enough so that they'd worked up quite some appetite. The end of practice found himself and Fred, walking side-by-side once more, but this time leaving the towering stadium spires in their wake, as they meandered back up towards the castle, following the intermittent scents of mouth-watering fresh bread that would waft their way on a stray eddy of the breeze every so often.

'I must admit, James, I'm impressed. Colour me confident for next week's match.'

The practice had been even more of a success than James had hoped for, and Fred hadn't been the only one to utter similar sentiments about the upcoming game.

'Told you I had a plan,' James said, allowing himself just a touch of smugness.

'I'll admit, I didn't think you had it in you. I didn't think Carissa had it in _her_.'

'James Potter was inside of _who_, exactly?'

The voice came from behind them, back toward the pitch. There was no need for James to turn around to see who it was. He'd recognise that haughty, degrading tone anywhere.

'Odette Mansfield,' Fred growled. 'Should have known you'd be lurking somewhere to spy on us. Tell me, do you actually get around on your belly when nobody's watching, or does the snake in you only go as far as those beady little eyes?'

'Careful, Weasley, anything more out of you and you'd be in danger of slipping out from James' shadow.'

Fred bristled. Odette sneered. James ran a hand through his hair in despair.

'Take my broom, Fred. I'll meet you up at the castle for lunch.'

James proffered the broom, and Fred took it alongside his own, but not before shooting a final, dark look in Odette's direction.

'Yes, run along little Weasley,' Odette sniped. 'The adults need to have a talk.'

'I'll save you a seat, James,' Fred said, ignoring Odette entirely. 'I'm sure that this won't take long.'

And with that Fred wheeled about and left them, forsaking the meandering gravel path for a direct beeline right up to the castle doors. He didn't look back once.

Odette watched him leave with an amused little smirk on her face. For some reason, James was finding it more irritating than usual.

'Do you _always _have to try and pick fights with my friends?' James asked snappishly.

Odette looked offended. 'I think you'll find _he_ started it this time, Potter.'

'Because he's probably fed up of you constantly talking down to him.'

'Come now, James, let's not bicker. After all, little Freddy's heart was in the right place. He's only standing up for his poor, lovesick little buddy.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Oh, not just me, darling. _Everyone_ has been talking about how sad and miserable you've been lately. And we all know there's only one reason why _that_ could be, don't we?'

'What… are you talking about?'

'I knew you'd see sense James! We're just too perfect together, aren't we?' And with that, Odette threw her arms wide, as if waiting for James to run into them. Ideally blubbering a few heartfelt apologies along the way, if he knew how she thought.

But James didn't move. Instead, he just ran a hand through his hair and exhaled heavily, filling the space between them with nothing but heavy silence.

That it was making Odette uncomfortable was obvious. To cover her discomfort, she ended up striding forwards and taking it upon herself to envelope James in a gigantic hug, which he returned only very cautiously.

'See, isn't that better,' she said into his shoulder. 'You can relax now, James. I'll take you back. I'll forgive you. Of course, there's a few things you'll have to do for _me,_ first. Like apologise, obviously. And tell me that you're fine with me leaving school next year to join the Magpies. And of course, you're going to have to take me on a date to make up for all of this palaver. I was thinking Madam Puddifoots. I can get us an evening reservation in a private booth. And then for after… well do you recall that time you showed me how you could unwrap a stick of gum with just your tongue? I think it's time–'

'Enough, Odette.' James stepped back, expecting to break free of her embrace. What he hadn't been prepared for was the rushed, almost panicked tensing of her arms when he made to break contact. He eventually pried her free, but was surprised to see she wasn't meeting his eye.

It was all too much, James had decided. Although, he wasn't entirely sure _when_ he had decided. Perhaps it had been just now, upon seeing the way Odette treated Fred. Perhaps it had been some time over the past couple of weeks, in the depths of his fretting and frustration, and Odette's actions just now had given him the courage to come to grips with the decision his subconscious had made.

It was the sheer _predictability_ of it, James realised. The same old, mean Odette. The same dismissive tone. The same sudden, salacious flirting. The same quicksilver flashing between infatuated and irate. Not one thing had changed. And nor was it likely to, James was beginning to understand.

'There's no need to be all embarrassed, James,' Odette purred. She reached out a hand to rest it on James' shoulder, but he made a purposeful step backwards. For the first time, he saw a flicker of uncertainty skitter across Odette's features.

'Honestly, Odette, I didn't even know if we _had_ broken up, or not. But now that we evidently have, or _had,_ I've decided I'm happy for it to stay that way.'

'I- _what?_ James, you must be joking.'

'I wouldn't joke about this, Odette. Surely, we owe each other that, at least.'

'We owe each other plenty! That's why you can't–'

'I can, Odette. My friends need me. Now, more than ever. I just don't have the energy for… _this _anymore.' James waved his hand loosely back and forth between them. 'I can't spend half of my life spiralling with you, Odette. This gravitating around one another, clashing, and spinning away again. The ferocity of the fights rivalled only by the fierceness of the affection, as if there can be no existence without turbulence. I have enough mayhem in my life, Odette, without you adding to it.'

To her credit, Odette had stood silent and stoic while James spoke. He searched for any glimmer of expression or sentiment on her face, but came up empty-handed. For once, Odette Mansfield – who so famously wore her heart on her sleeve – had become guarded.

'You're making a mistake, James,' she finally said. She'd folded her arms across her chest, finally taking a step back and looking at James as if she'd never even seen him before. 'I won't offer you another chance. Especially not- not after this.'

James smiled softly. Not unkindly. Trying to make tender a moment so fraught and edged that it felt as if they danced back and forth amidst a field of broken glass. 'I always thought it would end in a blaze of glory, you know. Crockery flying. Screaming and yelling. A crowd to watch. Who knows, perhaps we'd even cross wands. For us, this seems almost… mature.'

Odette looked away, back out over the Lake and across the Quidditch pitch. One hand lifted up towards her face, but some remnant of self-control jerked it back down again. 'That's the difference, see,' she whispered. 'I didn't think about it ending at all.'

And with those words sitting heavy and leaden in James' chest, Odette turned her back on him and walked away. Away from the castle, back down towards the pitch. To clear her head. James knew come the evening, she may well still be up in the air, practicing her manoeuvres, circling the pitch in that graceful way she had, darting in and out of the stands with a breathtaking speed he couldn't tear his eyes away from…

James had to forcibly turn himself around and face back up towards the castle. He hadn't realised he'd taken half a step in Odette's direction, as if to call her back. Some things were best not to dwell on, particularly when they were still so raw.

But James found, among the sadness, that there was a sort of catharsis in the break-up. A sense of release. Truth was, James hadn't wanted to admit how much of a cloud the whole ordeal had left hanging over him. Now, painful though his decision had been, it had a sense of cleanness, a wound that would heal, not the festering, debilitating uncertainty that had been lingering between them.

James could focus now on Rain. On unravelling the myriad mysteries that still clung to her. And so the misery of the knowledge that Holly had imparted onto him could become a balm. Rather than the cause for distress it had been, it could now be something to throw himself into. A welcome distraction from dwelling overlong on Odette.

For the first time in a long time, James was looking forward to it.

He marched into the Entrance Hall borne upon the wings of great relief. But his stride faltered, and he stopped short no more than three steps in.

The doors to the Great Hall – where lunch should have been taking place – were shut. The few sounds that drifted out of the room were subdued and murmuring. Far from the raucous mayhem that it should have been. James drew his wand, feeling the comfortable familiarity of the cold wood sliding coolly into his palm. He kept it raised as he took a tentative step forward. Shadows fell around him, dropping over his shoulders like a midnight cape. The heavy thud of the outside door slamming shut drew a knife across already fraying nerves. James' heart hammered against his throat as he strained every sense for some indication of what was going on. A feeling of… _wrongness_ pervaded the room.

_Closer… get closer…_

It wasn't words, so much, as it was a series of images and emotions conveying the sentiment, suddenly assaulting James' mind. But he had no doubt as to where they had originated from. The budding eagerness and bloodthirsty glee was radiating in waves from his wand. Death's Wand.

James moved closer. To his left, the Grand Staircase yawned open and empty towards the upper floors. But the _wrongness_ was coming from closer at hand. _Much_ closer at hand.

Sudden movement from shadows up ahead. James levelled his wand–

'_Incarcer-_oahh! Potter! What in the _hell_ are you doing here?'

James bit down hard on his own Hex, staring in confusion instead at a harried-looking Professor Meadows, who bore dust-blackened features, ash-smeared clothing, and had her shock of bright blonde hair matted and snarled with sweat and soot.

'I was just- Quidditch practice- what- _where_ is everybody?'

'In the Great Hall, being watched over by Professor Longbottom. Where you ought to be as well.'

'But what are _you_ doing, out here?'

Bright white teeth flashed out from the smoky visage, making Professor Meadows smile all the more triumphant.

'I've found one, Potter.' She gestured vaguely behind her with one greasy hand.

'One…what?'

'One of those… those _rooms._ The disappearing ones. The sealed ones. Only now, it's not sealed, not yet at least. Come, look. Quickly, now.'

But looking was the last thing James wanted to do. His arm fell slack to his side, his jaw slipped agape, and a chill hand closed a death-grip around his spine. He knew the door that Professor Meadows was gesturing towards. He'd been in that very room, only a couple of weeks prior.

It was Rain's room. The room with the dancing vortex of lights. The room that he and Cassie had dragged her out of in the small hours of the morning.

And it had fallen victim to the Unmaking.


	14. A Bargain Struck

James approached the room at Professor Meadows' beckoning. He knew he had to look. Had to see it with his own eyes, if only so he knew he could believe it. His leaden footsteps were at odds with the building anticipation he felt emanating from his wand. It practically vibrated in his hand. The eagerness, James realised with a start, was to _fight._

When they arrived at the threshold, Professor Meadows threw an arm across James' chest. He hadn't realised he'd been about to take another step and actually enter the room. He blinked to clear his vision, and stowed his wand hastily in the waistband of his jeans. This, at least, gave him some modicum of relief.

'You don't want to set foot in there, Potter, trust me.' And Professor Meadows hiked up one side of her robe to show James the blackened, charred remains of her wooden leg, damaged beyond repair more than half-way up the calf.

James didn't need telling twice.

The room before him was still recognisable, but only just. It looked to James as if the entire thing were made of wax, and it had been held before a great heat. The walls, the ceiling, the floor itself seemed to be melting before his very eyes. And, in a mind-bending twist that he couldn't quite wrap his head around, it didn't seem to be pooling anywhere. The substance of the room itself instead seemed to constantly warping, folding, dripping down over itself like melting slag. Like something liquid that he could reach out and gather in cupped hands.

Although, if Professor Meadows' leg was anything to go by, that decision might well prove fatal.

'Making you nauseous yet?' Professor Meadows asked at his shoulder.

If only she knew the half of it.

'Who did this?' James croaked, allowing Professor Meadows to attribute his nervousness to the shocking nature of the room's revelation.

'Not a clue, but I daresay it's the same person who has done it a few times already this year. And whoever it is, when I find them, they're going to wish they'd never been born.'

That was exactly what James had been afraid of. He felt sick to his stomach. Rain _couldn't_ have… She's _changed._

The refrain was starting to sound hollow and forced even to James' own ears.

'And what would you suggest I do if I had any… suspicions as to what, or _who,_ might be behind it?'

Zoe Meadows spun around to face James with the preternatural speed she had honed over years practising to become an Auror. She grabbed James roughly by the shoulder of his shirt and pulled him in close.

'I'd suggest you be very, _very_ careful about just who you divulge that information to, Potter. And be absolutely, _unequivocally_ certain that you had your facts right before you went to anyone. And, most of all, don't, whatever you do–'

'Professor Meadows, I should hope that the current headlock in which you hold young Master Potter is in no way indicative of his guilt in the travesty that stands before you.'

The commanding, domineering voice of Headmistress Galatea Renshaw cracked like a whip through the abandoned Entrance Hall. It echoed eerily through the oddly silent melting classroom, and James and the professor sprung apart as if electrocuted.

'Not at all, Headmistress,' Professor Meadows said hurriedly. 'He just happened to show up.'

'Doesn't he always.'

Renshaw's voice was dry, her gaze flat and emotionless. She hardly even spared a look for the horribly disfigured classroom behind them.

'Honestly, Headmistress. I was just down at Quidditch practice–'

'And yet the remainder of your team are safely ensconced in the Great Hall, and have been for the last fifteen minutes.'

'I, er… I ran into Odette, Headmistress. Odette Mansfield.'

'I see.'

Professor Meadows gave an awkward little cough at James' shoulder. Better they believe his meeting had been a dalliance, then, than try to explain it any further.

'Zoe, I'll ask you to seal this room, if you could. I trust you are familiar with the procedures and incantations, if, perhaps, a little out of practice. You have fifteen minutes until I have instructed Professor Longbottom to release his charges. Best that it's all tided up by then.'

'Fifteen minutes–!'

'Very good. Once you are finished, please come visit me in my office. Master Potter, in the meantime, you and I shall have a little chat.'

James swallowed, hard. He cast one final panicked look over his shoulder at Professor Meadows, who flashed him a wobbly smile and a shaky thumbs-up, before he was guided forcefully up the first steps of the Grand Staircase and his attention was stolen entirely by the Headmistress marching alongside him.

What, exactly, had Professor Meadows been about to tell him not to do?

'Rest easy, Master Potter. You're more wound up than a Niffler in a jewellery store, I can practically feel it radiating from you. You can be assured that I do not think for a moment that you are responsible for this. Recall, if you will, that it was your confidence I sought after the Sorting Hat met his untimely demise to begin the year.'

James exhaled a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He felt himself relax. But only very slightly. In the oddly silent castle, their footsteps step-clacked together, making a feeble effort to fill the cavernous stairwell above them with their paltry, intermittent sounds.

While James was hesitant, Renshaw strode confidently, making for her office. Her long, sweeping black robe shimmered in the sunlight streaming in through the high arched windows, whispering softly as it dragged along the stone in her wake. The high, stiff collar gave the impression that she was looking down at James whenever she turned to face him, half of her face obscured, only those dark, penetrating eyes offering any insight into the guarded thoughts of the enigmatic Headmistress.

'After you, James.'

She paused to gesture James ahead at the entrance to her office. James stepped first onto the revolving staircase. He felt an itch developing between his shoulder blades. As if he had exposed his back to a rabid dog. Or, a stalking wolf. He turned side-on and offered the Headmistress a tight smile. Stoic, frosty regard was all he received in return.

'Sit, please.'

The door to her office had barely opened before Galatea Renshaw swept past James and waved a hand dismissively at the single, hard-backed chair set facing her desk. Arranged almost as if she'd been expecting him.

James trudged slowly across the bare, stone floor towards the seat. The blank, stark walls offered little comfort and did nothing to quell the feeling that he was walking into an interrogation. Harry had often told James about the myriad portraits that used to hang upon the wall in Dumbledore's time, and the scores of little magical instruments and curios, that not even the Headmaster had been able to name the function of. Renshaw's favouring of this cold, militaristic minimalism made James feel as if he was walking to a trial every time he entered.

The silence stretched on as Renshaw turned to face him. Forgoing her large, uncomfortable and severely functional-looking chair to instead lean back against her desk, facing James. She crossed her arms and took a series of deep breaths. The time between each seemed interminable, and had James nearly physically squirming, feeling as if he were ready to admit to wrongdoings he hadn't even committed.

'What, er, what was this about, Headmistress?' he finally asked, cracking under the pressure.

Renshaw smiled a cool smile that didn't quite make it to eyes staring off into the distance over James' head.

'Four attacks, James. Did you know there have been four attacks since the start of the year?'

James didn't think before opening his mouth. 'Where was the fourth?'

'Ah. So you have been keeping up. I ought never to have doubted you. A small broom closet next to the Prefects' Bathroom. A tiny crack in the wall meant that anybody inside it could spy on anyone bathing next door. Ghastly little room, but, unfortunately it will never expose itself to faculty. Or it wouldn't, before it became a raging inferno of flames made of glass.'

'Bloody hell,' James aptly summarised.

'Indeed, Master Potter. So, four attacks. The precious Sorting Hat, a back-alley entrance, a peeper's hovel, and now a well-used classroom. I thought, perhaps, that you and I could have a little chat about what it all means. Perhaps bounce a few ideas off of one another. You have shown, in the past, that you and I are able to work together, am I not correct?'

'Yes Headmistress. But–'

'You are saying you do not wish to work together?' Her words took on a firm, icy edge that dropped the temperature in the room instantly.

'N-no Headmistress, I just don't think I'm the right one to be talking to.'

'Well then, direct me to whom I ought to be speaking?'

James' throat seized up. How had she manoeuvred him into this position so deftly? 'It's just – I don't really know much about it, Headmistress. I've been trying to focus on my studies this year.'

Renshaw stopped gazing off over James' head and gave a heavy sigh. She leaned forwards and laid a hand upon James' shoulder, studying him closely. In her eyes James saw, for once, past the cold aloofness. He saw a strain there. A struggle. There was a tightness that hadn't existed a couple of years ago. A weary, weathered cast that opened up before him, revealing a shockingly intimate glimpse of the hardships that Galatea Renshaw was juggling. That were slowly eating her away. Ever since she had been taken, James realised, she had never again felt truly safe.

A sort of fuzzy warmness crept over him, and his vision clouded momentarily. When Renshaw pulled back, he felt as if some sort of bond or link between them had snapped. The cold façade slammed down, and she was as unreadable as she had ever been. Perhaps, though, it seemed that she now studied him with amore appraising eye. Like a foe she had underestimated. Just before she struck for the heart.

'You have come so far, Master Potter, since I have known you. Let us not talk, then, of dark deeds and foul happenings. Let us talk, instead, of friends. Tell me, if you will, does young Master Wallace still struggle with his practical lessons?'

Taken aback, James stumbled and tripped over his words, lumbering into his response like a man freshly learning to talk. He told Renshaw of Clip's woes, and then of Fred's latest shipment of Weasley's products. Of Cat and her almost prescient Arithmantic abilities. Of Cassie and her fear of acknowledging her growing feelings for Clip. A sort of heady haze still hung over James, fogging his mind, so that it wasn't until much later that he realised the level of knowledge Renshaw already possessed on all of these topics was frightening indeed, and should have served as a warning then and there. But instead, lulled by her calm words and earnest questions, he confirmed much of what she already appeared to know.

'And have you spoken to Miss Brooks, recently? You two made quite the dynamic pair, if I remember rightly. And you both are gifted with such wonderful abilities.'

Something within James twigged. Something, buried deep underneath the fugue surrounding his mind alerted him to the question. The thinly-veiled intensity with which it had been asked.

'No,' he lied. 'Not at all.'

Renshaw leaned back, exhaling through her nose.

'I see. Let me tell you, Master Potter, of some adventures from my youth, then. And let us see if we cannot draw some parallels to our modern-day dilemmas from among them.'

James sat up straight of his own accord. He had a feeling that things were about to get interesting.

'It started, I suppose, when I was a little older than yourself. Barely out of Hogwarts at the time. Although, in reality, I was set on this course many years before, courtesy of a restless mind and a ruthless hunger for answers. The tale centres on three of us, in the beginning. More joined later, accreted by the sheer gravity of our cause, but only us three are important.

'Remember that, James. Here is your first lesson. Any group, no matter how big, no matter how strong their momentum seems to be, will have a heart. A core of only a handful who matter. All else are just useful idiots. Cut out that heart, and you will kill the whole movement. This is why you are so valuable. Remember that.'

James looked stunned. '_I_ am the heart–?'

But Renshaw waved his query aside. 'It became abundantly clear to us that Hogwarts' education had left us a long way from being ready to face the magical world. To _really_ face it, and not just to meander aimlessly through it like so many do. We needed to know more. Needed to arm ourselves with knowledge sufficient to carry us through, to enable us to make change, to do something meaningful with our lives and break free from the seething mass of mediocrity that surrounded us.

'So, to do this, we sought knowledge. We sought it in the places that nobody wanted to look. Where people had _forgotten_ to look. Places so old they no longer existed on maps. We spent years hunting it. Many boring years uncovering dusty scrolls and moth-eaten tomes. Of paging through parchment and papyrus and scratchings on stone tablets. Others came and went, drawn in by the romanticism of our cause, but soon dissuaded by the banality of the work that it demanded. We became hoarders of the most useless knowledge known to wizard-kind; recipes, studies of seed-dispersal patterns; maps of old towns; weather records; reports of crop plantings and harvests. The list drags on.

'Until one day, we found it. What we had been looking for – though none of us knew it at the time. The monotonous drudgery of our search over years and years had, instead of shattering our resolve, only hardened it into something more fierce. Some assurance, buried within each of us, though none of us spoke of it, that we no longer hunted for just anything. We hunted for something that would change the world. As if, by the pure, mind-crushing duration of our hunt, the prize that we sought grew larger. As if we'd earned the knowledge that we were about to uncover by our commitment to its unveiling.

'Now believe me wholly when I say this, James Potter. No matter how many sins I've committed, in this life or past lives. No matter how many atrocities I may visit upon mankind in the future, nothing I have done or will ever do is enough to deserve the knowledge that we uncovered. Nothing.'

James hadn't realised he was leaning forward in his seat. His breaths were coming short and ragged. His every nerve hung on edge; his body was tensed from his shoulders to his fingertips. He waited, sensing that it was too delicate a moment to even utter the question that Renshaw's monologue required.

'They will tell you that knowledge is power, James Potter. Somebody, some day will utter it with naïve certainty. You might even make an affirmatory little sound in response. But what nobody speaks of, is the chains that come with it. For nothing can be more sure than the fact that knowledge will bind you to action. That you _must_ do something. For inaction will kill you. It will damn you worse than if you'd never had the knowledge at all.

'And that is where we lost our way. There were, at this point, maybe a dozen of us. Though, still only we three truly mattered. But a dozen headstrong witches and wizards set to solve the same problem invariably come up with two dozen differing solutions. My greatest regret is that I was not the one who acted first. A few of us started disappearing. Then a few more. It soon became apparent that they were ones who all voiced a similar opinion in how to act upon this new knowledge. That somebody was intent upon getting their way – and having no voices left to oppose them.

'I thought that I knew what was happening. I thought I knew who was behind it. I had suspicions that I held close. By I was paralysed. Afraid that it was one whom I trusted, one whom I loved dearly, who was behind it. And so I hesitated, James Potter. My inaction cost the lives of several whom I called friend, and it could have cost a whole lot more had I not managed to finally snap myself out of it and take that first, terrifying step forwards. To overcome the inertia within me. To speak up, and act.

'Now tell me, James Potter. Is there anything you think we ought to discuss, in light of recent events around Hogwarts?'

James sat in his chair, stunned. He felt as if Renshaw's story had taken a physical toll on him. His chest was tight, his breathing ragged, and his shoulders tensed from leaning forward eagerly to listen. She had dragged him so close to the revelation he had desperately been seeking for the past two years now, only to flip at the last second and lay such a heavy burden at his feet.

James didn't know whether he was ready to take it on just yet.

'I feel… concerned, Headmistress. That some of us. Some, more than others, might be at risk from what is happening.'

Renshaw leaned forward slightly, studying James with an unflinching stare. 'And do you think it may be because some of you are actively putting yourselves at greater risk?'

'I worry that some of us may not have a choice, and it is possible that we are being targeted.'

'Recall my tale just now, Master Potter, and 'ware that your judgement is not clouded by friendship.'

'I hold my own counsel in this, Headmistress, and I do not want to jump to conclusions too quickly.'

'A great deal of damage can be done by seeking to avoid personal harm, James. Remember; knowledge _needs_ action.'

'I _understand,_ Headmistress,' James' tone was firmer now, suddenly adamant that he would not back down. 'But as long as there's any shred of doubt in my mind, I refuse to cast judgement.'

The Headmistress leaned back slightly, exhaling and folding her arms across her chest. She gazed down at James for a long, silent moment before finally speaking once more.

'Very well, I see that your mind is made up in this. But let me offer you this advice, if I may. Do not let uncertainty rule overlong in your heart, James Potter. Do what you must to be decisive, and then act. Use what means you have at your disposal to uncover the truth, and do so swiftly, I beg of you. Terrifying though it may be, it is also a painful necessity. Be brave, James Potter. Face this fear head on.'

James found himself nodding in agreement. 'Yes, Headmistress.'

'And report back to me once you have.'

James nodded again, before turning to leave, the dismissal was clear in Renshaw's voice.

He had some serious thinking ahead of him. And – more importantly – some serious acting. Renshaw had been right about one thing, the prospect of it terrified him. Rain and the Desecrator and the Unmakings all swirled around in his head together for the remainder of that day, along with the mystery of the secret Renshaw had uncovered and come so close to revealing to him.

It was all too much to process alone. He needed to speak to Holly once more.

But any chance to do so was swiftly interrupted the next day by one of James' most welcome distractions – Quidditch. Gryffindor's first match of the year, and nearly the entire school was slated to turn out to watch them take on an underdog Ravenclaw side.

Hufflepuff had beaten Slytherin a fortnight prior and were – predictably – the favourites to once again take out the title. With most people discounting both James as a young captain and the selection of his team, it was considered to be a race between the greens and the golds this season for the cup, with Gryffindor little more than an afterthought, and Ravenclaw even lesser still.

But all the talk did was strengthen James' resolve to prove them wrong. He alone knew the skills of his team. He knew how hard they had been practising, how many extra hours they had been putting in both on and off the pitch. He knew for a fact that Carissa Li – his new Chaser whom everybody seemed to discredit – had been studying the Gryffindor team's playbook so intently that her dorm-mate had to Charm the hangings around her bed at night because she kept talking about it in her sleep.

James knew that they were ready, and so it was with no small amount of confidence that he strode down towards the pitch on a calm, cool Sunday morning, his broomstick slung over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the sky above for any sign of blue amongst the thick overcast layer.

'Oi, Gnargle-brain!'

'Gah! Blimey, Lily. Don't sneak up on a man like that.'

Lily rolled her eyes dramatically. 'I've been walking right next to you for the last five minutes, Banshee-breath. You've been staring at the sky the _entire_ time.'

'I was checking out the weather,' James replied shortly.

Lily gave an overly-dramatic gaze up towards the sky, then stroked her chin as if deep in thought. 'Hmm, I think it's cloudy.'

'You're an arse, Lily.'

'You're a tit, James.'

'Hey, watch your language!'

'Ugh, you're such a _hypocrite!'_

Lily gave him a shove in the shoulder, which hardly made him budge. In spite of himself, James smiled a little. There was something immensely satisfying in winding up his little sister. He reached out and threw his free arm around her shoulders, and laughed openly as she tried to squirm and weasel out of his grip.

'Is there a _reason_ that you're bugging me this morning, Lily?' James asked. 'I'm about to have a–'

'Yeah, yeah, _Quidditch._ I know. All hail Lord James. I've already sacrificed a goat to the idiot Quidditch Gods so that you'll be the one to fall off your broom first.'

'Would it kill you to, just maybe, support Al and I for once?'

Lily doubled over and fake-gagged. The action caused her to worm free of James' grip. 'Gross, James. The only reason I used to watch your games was to see if you and Odette would have a gigantic temper tantrum at one another. And now you've ruined even that, I hear.'

'How do you know about that?' James shot. 'That only happened yesterday.'

Lily tapped her nose and smiled a knowing smile. This time, it was her turn to laugh and James' turn to yell in frustration.

They had arrived at the entrance to the Quidditch pitch. This early before the match only a few of the most eager supporters dotted the tall stands, waving banners of red-gold or silver and blue. James took note of a gentle easterly breeze toying with the ends of streamers and flags high up.

'Spectators over that way,' James said, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. 'The big kids have got work to do now Lily.'

'Put a sock in it, James,' Lily hissed, grabbing him by the sleeve and pulling him into a shadowy recess beneath a nearby stairwell. Out of sight of anybody entering the grounds. James' attention immediately sharpened.

'What is it, Lily?' James asked, leaning close, suddenly uncertain.

Lily gave a final, furtive glance at their surroundings and leaned right in to whisper in James' ear. She spoke so softly that she had to break off when a group of students mounted the steps above their heads, and the trampling feet thundered over the hushed conversation. James didn't say a word the entire time that she spoke, but when she finished, she gave a big sigh and looked up – for once, earnestly – at James. A defiant glimmer shone behind her bright green eyes.

'Are you sure, Lils?' James asked gravely.

She nodded, biting her lower lip.

'These are serious people you are dealing with. I don't want you getting hurt.'

'I can look after myself, James.' Sudden, fiery resolve set her standing straight with her chin thrust out.

'I know, Lily. Just be careful. I'll take it from here.'

Lily smiled, squeezed James' arm swiftly and then was gone, shooting off into the shadows and down a service corridor that led back out towards the castle grounds. James took a little longer to emerge from the shadowed hideout, spending a good few moments thinking over the information she had just imparted to him, and how best to put it to use.

But invariably, the information was best put to use – for the moment, at least – by putting it out of James' mind. He had a Quidditch match to win. He could worry about the other stuff once he had secured a win for Gryffindor.

The rest of James' pre-match preparation went more or less as planned. The team arrived on time, they warmed up together and talked through the game plan. Fred once again expressed confidence in James' tactics for the match, and the others nodded in assent. A few nerves began to creep in, finding their way into the muscles of his legs and giving him a lethargic, enervated feeling. But a look around the locker room at the six other fresh faces, eager and ready and peering back earnestly went some way to quelling them. The trust they put in James was heartening. He remained confident that he wouldn't let them down.

Suddenly, the doors to the pitch flung open, signalling the match was about to begin. The wall of noise cascaded into James, ripping away any chance of a last-minute word, or any final plans to put into action. James gestured his teammates out first, clasping the hands of each of them, and meeting their eyes with a firm nod. Al was the last to leave. James pulled him close, leaning in to shout in his ear over the noise of the crowds.

'Be perfect today, Al. If I mess up this thing with Carissa, nobody will remember anyway if you catch the Snitch. I'm counting on you.'

'Al grinned confidently back. But no pressure, right?'

'Right.'

The two brothers mounted up together and took to the skies side-by-side, while chants of '_Potter! Potter! Potter!'_ thundered through the stadium around them.

James moved in to shake hands with the Ravenclaw captain. He heard out Professor Hawksby's rendition of the rules, the shouted words little more than a buzz in James' ear. He checked and re-checked all of his players' positions. All were perfect. They hovered in place, ready, eager. Waiting. James clasped the handle of his broom tight to stop his hands from shaking. He took a steadying breath, closing out the noise, the whistles and jeers and screams. The colours and banners. Focusing down to the small trunk fifty feet below him.

Suddenly, it bucked wildly. James shot forwards to claim the Quaffle, but no balls were forthcoming. A false alarm. He froze, hovering alone in the centre of the pitch. A quiet had fallen over the crowd, but now he could make out laughter coming from the stands. Mostly from those in blue, as well as green. He looked up dumbly at Professor Hawksby, who blew a short blast on his whistle and signalled a penalty shot for Ravenclaw.

'Starting before the whistle, that's a foul!'

A cheer went up from the Ravenclaw end, and the laughter redoubled. James felt his ears burning, and refused to meet the eyes of any of his team members as he wheeled back into position for the penalty shot.

'Thanks, Potter!' called one of the Ravenclaw Chasers mockingly.

'Put a sock in it!' Fred called back. 'It's the only time you'll be leading today!'

But lead they did, as the Ravenclaw Chaser who flew up to take the shot – a burly, seventh-year lad with arms thicker than James' thighs – zipped the Quaffle into the left-hand goal hoop before Gemma Lewis could react.

James slapped the handle of his broom in anger and swore under his breath. He caught Gemma's pass off the restart and – so angry was he – that he tore straight off up the pitch alone, completely forgetting his game-plan and the rest of his teammates. He met a swift and predictable demise as – three against one – the Ravenclaw Chasers bunched up, and the burly bloke drove a shoulder into James' ribs, knocking the wind from his lungs and the Quaffle from his hand. Another of his cohort caught it and raced off to score again, doubling their lead.

This time, James swore audibly enough that he earned himself a mention from the match commentator.

Carissa flew over to him before the restart and squeezed his arm. 'You've got this James!' she called over the crowd. A few of the jeers were coming from the red-and-golds, now. 'I believe in you. Your plan was brilliant, now let's do it!'

James smiled back at her. He steadied himself on his broom, physically shook his head to try and clear it of the building frustration. He flew into position and signalled to Gemma that he was ready for the restart.

He eyed the field before he made any moves this time around. Ravenclaw were obviously aware of the perceived fault that was Carissa's weak throwing arm. They played soft coverage on her, allowing her plenty of room to manoeuvre, and instead double-teamed Lynch. They were obviously not worried about Carissa being able to take the Quaffle and pass it on, or even make her way up the pitch and score past their Keeper. James smiled. He flashed a signal to his Chasers, and they adjusted position.

James moved up the pitch slowly. The third Ravenclaw Chaser – the one not marking Lynch, drifted towards him, leaving Carissa wide open. Seeing the window, James tossed her the Quaffle for an easy pass. But it had been no accident that the Ravenclaws had left her unmarked. She was in a poor position, forced into the corner of the pitch, with Lynch miles away on the far wing. An impossible throw for her.

But instead of making a run up the pitch, James veered hard to his left. Carissa shot to her right, and two of the three Ravenclaw Chasers converged on her.

But instead of trying to make a desperate throw up-field, Carissa merely let the Quaffle fall from her fingers as James zipped past directly underneath her. There was a curse and a grunt as Carissa body-checked another of the Ravenclaws, and James used his far superior arm strength to hurl the Quaffle up the pitch to a streaking Preston Lynch, who had a good yard or two of separation over his counterpart. He caught the pass easily and scored with a beautiful shot into the left-hand goal hoop. The lead was cut in half.

Fred quickly secured the Quaffle for Gryffindor off the restart, with a beautifully timed Bludger that collected the beefy Ravenclaw Chaser right in the solar plexus, and left him gasping for breath as James zipped up the pitch and scored again. Twice in quick succession, and just like that, they were level.

From there the game became one of back and forth. A slow, methodical arm-wrestle in which Gryffindor managed to eke out a tentative lead. Every time Ravenclaw played soft on Carissa, James punished them. They used the vertical passing game as well as the lateral. Carissa's weak arm didn't matter if James was ten feet below her. Ravenclaw, unaccustomed to defending against the added complexity, soon began to fall behind, and as the game wore on were unable to combat James' increasingly convoluted play calls.

Finally, Al put the nail in the coffin when he dove in and plucked the Snitch out of the air no more than an inch above the roof of the Hufflepuff stand. The crowd were up on their feet, and Gryffindor had won by two hundred and ninety points to sixty. A commanding victory.

And James had his first win as captain.

He joined his teammates in a celebratory hug at midfield, slowly sinking down towards the pitch as one. He laughed and joked with them in the locker room afterwards, and toasted their efforts with the Butterbeer that Fred had smuggled down. He even joined in the laughter at his own expense when he found his bottle to have been Jinxed, causing him to hiccup little pink bubbles non-stop for the next fifteen minutes.

He promised the others he would join them to continue the celebrations up in the Gryffindor common room, as they all filed out, laughing and joking and giddy with the ecstasy of winning. James stayed a little to tidy up the locker room, getting in some practise at his cleaning charms which were some of his worst. When he decided that _most_ of the mud was either gone or smeared in so much that it was hardly visible, he gave a shrug and headed up towards the castle. By now, most of the students had left, and the only sounds of merriment were distant and fitful. A sudden rain of golden sparks shot from a window high on the Gryffindor tower.

James was making his way through the gloomy tunnel that ran underneath the stands, headed towards the stadium exit when he heard a second set of footsteps approaching from behind. He paused, his hand drifting surreptitiously to his wand. He didn't _expect_ trouble, but these days, he never could seem to be sure…

'James, congratulations!' It was Ava Adams, grinning from ear to ear as she strode into view. She bounded over and without warning wrapped James up in a congratulatory hug. 'I remember my first time,' Ava laughed.

James smiled, but his reply froze as he caught a glimpse of green and silver over Ava's shoulder. A flash of blonde hair, and the figure was gone. James' mouth twisted in a wry grimace.

'Thanks, Ava,' he eventually said, stepping back and returning her smile. 'It's pretty satisfying.'

'You bet! And you were great, today. You were _all_ great. I can't wait until we face off in a few weeks' time.'

'Should be a close match.'

Not for the first time, James wondered at just where Ava found her boundless wellspring of enthusiasm and positivity.

'Well, I'd best be off! Got some first years to tutor this afternoon, and then I'm helping Professor Hagrid bandage up an injured school owl. And _then_ I'm helping Professor Longbottom weed Greenhouse Four.'

If she had been anybody else, James would think that Ava was bragging, but the earnest excitement in her voice could not be mistaken for anything other than genuine joy.

'Has anybody ever told you how perfect you are, Ava?' James asked, without really thinking through how it sounded.

Ava blushed, breaking their eye contact for a moment. She hid her gaze behind a lock of curly red hair. 'I, well… That is to say I'm–'

'Sorry. Forget I said anything. Before you go…' James turned and looked over his shoulder. He looked up the tunnel the way that Ava had come. Then he pulled her aside into a shadowy recess adorned with a portrait of an ancient Hogwarts Quidditch team celebrating some landmark victory or other.

'J-James,' Ava stammered. 'What are you–'

'Shh, there isn't much time. I need you to meet me one week from now on the staircase in the West Wing, third floor. The one that nobody ever uses because it's supposed to be haunted. Can you do that?'

'Didn't somebody die there, once?'

'A first year fell off the edge. But that was years ago now. It's fine. Can you do it?'

'What's all this about, James?'

James hesitated, then leaned in close and whispered in Ava's ear. He saw her eyes bulge, and watched as she clapped a hand to her mouth.

'Are- are you sure?' she finally asked, whispering almost reverently.

James nodded. 'I think I can help us get Tristan back on the team, but I need you with me, Ava. Can you do it for me, Ava?'

'I can. For Tristan.'

James smiled, anticipating his revenge already.

'For Tristan.'


	15. Right and Wrong

The week leading up to James' rendezvous with Ava Adams passed painfully slowly. There were, in James' opinion, multiple reasons for this. Not least among them the fact that both Transfiguration and Charms heaped a surprise test upon the fifth years, in which everybody who failed (James failed both) had to stay back for extra remedial lessons after hours. Then there was the full day he had to spend laid out in bed with a splitting headache. Probably from all of the extra study. But principal among the reasons, he decided, was that Holly Brooks was, once again, very purposefully ignoring him.

He'd made a point of trying to track her down ever since Headmistress Renshaw had interrogated him about Rain. Something had begun, in that meeting between them. Some inner resolve within James had been firmed up, and he could feel himself gathering momentum towards a decision. But he didn't want to do so alone.

Nor could he burden his friends – his _other_ friends – with what he was to do. Not just yet. Not until he could be sure. He saw how fiercely protective Cassie was with Rain. How upset she'd been without her last year, and how hard she had taken it when they stumbled across her doing… _something_ to that classroom. No, James had decided with a wry grimace, he needed to look elsewhere. To other relationships. He'd shrugged to himself. And Holly had made it pretty clear that she already considered their bond expendable…

But she was making it damned hard to track her down. It had finally dawned on James that she was actively avoiding him after the third day, when he thought he'd pinned her down to a corner of the library he _swore _he'd just seen her enter, only to find it suspiciously devoid of life, but with an open book still resting atop one of the reading tables. The title read: _Catch me if you can: Fifty of the Moste Elusive Magical Creatures._

And so, the chase continued. He tracked her after class, he called to her in the corridors. He even hung around the Slytherin table at mealtimes until the death stares he received from Odette and her friend group made him slink sheepishly away once more. But no matter how hard he tried, that shimmering curtain of black hair always just managed to be disappearing around a corner up ahead.

Until one night, James had her. He'd spied her by chance down a side corridor after heading back from a particularly gruelling study session Cassie had enforced upon them. Forgoing the warm embrace of his waiting bed, James slipped away from his friends and tailed Holly through a seldom-used corridor that passed by the back entrance to the Library. He kept his distance, hoping to sneak up and surprise her. She was obviously not in a hurry, and for once seemed oblivious to his progress. They descended a narrow, winding staircase, then along a dingy walkway, until a blind corner was to give James his chance-

'Ha! Got you!'

'Bloody hell! Argh-! Professor Meadows? You scared the life out of me!'

Zoe Meadows was barely able to control her glee. Her eyes sparkled with mirth, and she was biting down hard on her lower lip to stop from laughing outright.

'Oh, James, would that I had a Pensieve so I could bottle the look on your face forever.'

'Not funny, professor. You scared me half to death. It's darker than a dungeon in here.'

Over the professor's shoulder, there was no sign of Holly Brooks.

'Come now, James, stop pouting. It's unbecoming.'

James sighed as Professor Meadows threw an arm across his shoulders and made to lead him back up the way he'd just come.

'Actually, Professor, I was just tracking down Holly. Did you see her come through here?'

'Of course I did. This was all her idea, after all.'

'She- _what?'_

'I told her I wanted to get in touch with you, but that it should be out of the way of prying eyes. She was only too happy to help. The scaring you witless part was her little brain child.'

'Ugh. Can you tell her I've been trying to get a hold of her?'

'No.'

James stopped in his tracks, causing Professor Meadows – still with her arm around him – to bump into his shoulder and tread on his heel with her good leg. James thought she did it on purpose.

'Why- why not?'

'Because, James – and I cannot possibly stress this enough – you are a bit of an arse.'

'You're a professor! You're not allowed to say that. And besides, that hardly seems a fair summary of the situation.'

'Holly's words, not mine, Potter. And I'm inclined to agree. Now, don't get me wrong, I adore you–'

'Would that _I _had the Pensive, so I could bottle that.'

'You tit. Just give her some space, James. She'll talk when she's ready.'

They'd started walking again, the professor still leaning on James for support. They headed back up the dark corridor, but didn't turn off at the well-lit staircase, instead heading onwards, where no more than one torch in four sputtered weakly in its bracket.

'I don't have _time_ for space, Professor. It's about- well, it's about what we saw in that room- _ow!'_

'You _are_ a tit. Shut your mouth, Potter. I told you the walls have ears around here. Get in there. No- that's a broom closet, _that_ one.'

James pushed open the door to revel a similarly low-lit room smaller than a classroom but larger than a closet. A tiny, cramped desk was pushed up against one wall, and a single, wobbly chair sat facing it. Professor Longbottom was leaning casually up against the desk, drinking from a glass containing some sort of dark, honey-coloured liquor.

James groaned.

He could feel the migraine coming back already.

'I've _just_ gotten over a headache. The last thing I need is the two of you rooting around in my noggin for an evening. I swear, you enjoy this way too much.'

'We're just trying to help you, James,' Professor Longbottom placated, draining his glass and gesturing to the empty chair. 'Sit.'

James slumped into the chair, giving both Professors a sullen look of resignation.

'Tonight, James, I want to focus on your ability to detect somebody trying Legilimency on you. It won't always be obvious, and true masters can cast the spell non-verbally. Sometimes even without direct eye-contact. I want you to try and detect when I use Legilimency on you, if you could.'

James sighed, but sat up straighter in his chair, looking Professor Longbottom in the eyes.

'Alright, I'm ready,' he finally said.

Professor Meadows barked a laugh. 'Well, you've failed the first test. I've been inside your head since we walked through that door, and you didn't notice a thing.'

'You what?! Get out!'

'Gladly. It's like being inside an unwashed sock in there.'

'You're such a–'

'Say it, Potter. I dare you.'

'Now, now, children' Professor Longbottom interrupted, barely hiding his smile. 'Play nice. James, again. This time, I'll try.'

James gripped the edges of his chair and stared flatly at the Professor. This time, he was going to be ready. This time, he knew it was coming. This time–

'Why so desperate to see Miss Brooks, James? I thought you two were… out of touch.'

'Argh!'

James rocked back on his chair, flopping his head back to gaze up at the dusty ceiling above. Amorphous shadows lurked in the corners of the room, making his head spin.

'Legilimency isn't all about smash-and-grab, James,' Professor Longbottom said kindly. 'Sometimes, it's possible to enter a subject's mind completely undetected – if the subject doesn't know what to look for, that is.

'Were I a true expert, I could enter your mind unnoticed and plant a thought there. And you would be none the wiser. That thought might be to clean your dormitory every once in a while. It might be to study extra hard for your Herbology O.W.L that you're currently on track to fail spectacularly, or… it could be a thought to murder Professor Meadows.'

'Cor, as _if_ he could!'

'Regardless of the specifics,' Professor Longbottom continued, holding up a placating hand, 'This form of mind control – because that's what it is, really – is much more subtle, much more difficult but much, _much_ more untraceable than the use of the Imperius, or other magical compulsions. It is a true master's tool. And, if used correctly, not even the finest combing through a Pensieve will uncover the culprit. The victim – in this case you, James – will be entirely convinced that you had the thought of your own volition.'

'That's… that's kind of terrifying.'

'It is incredibly terrifying, James. Imagine just what you could do, if you were able to influence the thinking of every single person you met in such a way. The followers you could recruit, the empire you could build… Terrifying, indeed. Obviously, neither Zoe nor myself can come close to such a feat, but we are, at least, able to train you to detect a presence in your head, so you may have a chance to slam down some defences.'

James swallowed with a suddenly-dry throat, and nodded.

Professor Meadows scooted into James' vision and flashed him a wicked smile. 'My turn,' she grinned.

'I hope you choke on the dirty sock.'

_You could never even get close to murdering me._

It took James a few moments to realise that Zoe had spoken the words in his mind. He gave a yell, and scooted back in his chair. Zoe's musical laughter rang out through the room. James felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment and anger. He'd lost again.

'Don't get discouraged, James,' Professor Longbottom assured him jovially. 'Practice makes perfect, after all.'

Professors Longbottom and Meadows alternated at sneaking into his mind. Though it mattered not which one was in there, James had no success whatsoever at detecting them. Zoe would laugh aloud, and whisper rude things directly into his mind. Professor Longbottom would give a wry smile and a shrug, and James would know he'd been beaten once again.

After an entire hour which felt more like a whole day, James begged off. A pressure was building behind his eyes that was almost a certain precursor to another headache. He mentioned as much to the professors.

'Toughen up, Princess,' Professor Meadows scoffed.

'Eat this,' Professor Longbottom added more helpfully, holding out a slab of chocolate. 'As much as I'm sure you disagree, a headache is actually a good sign. It means you are building a sensitivity to Legilimency. Most people could go on without feeling a thing, completely oblivious to the fact that they'd just been subjected to Legilimency.'

'Great. That makes me feel _so_ much better.'

'When do you ever stop whining?' Zoe Meadows asked, screwing up her nose. 'It's no wonder Mansfield ditched you.'

'Hey, that's private!'

'You two are as childish as each other,' Professor Longbottom gave a long-suffering sigh. 'Focus, now James. We'll have one more stint. We really want you to be able to–'

'Be able to what?'

The door to their room banged open, crashing against the wall and sending a shower of dust down from the rafters to build up in little piles on James' shoulders. Headmistress Galatea Renshaw strode purposefully into the room, stopping to stand face to face with the professors. James had to crane his neck to see her. She didn't look overly happy.

The small room, which had felt full with the three of them in it, now seemed positively cramped. Zoe Meadows was biting her lower lip nervously, but Professor Longbottom – a full glass in hand once more – answered calmly.

'To pass his O. , Headmistress.'

Renshaw's gaze fixed on to Professor Longbottom, seeming to bore into him with a physical force. James shrank down in his chair, and even Zoe Meadows cowered slightly, but Professor Longbottom remained implacable, taking a long, slow sip from the glass.

'Curious,' Renshaw finally drawled, looking pointedly at Zoe. 'I would have thought that Defence would be the one O.W.L that James could be assured of achieving.'

'It's no secret how well his father performed,' Professor Longbottom replied coolly. 'James, too, wants to get an Outstanding grade.'

'And the professor of Herbology is the best one to teach him?'

There was a soft clink as Professor Longbottom set the glass aside and he, too, folded his arms. 'You and I both know, Galatea, that I've seen my share of scrapes in the past. And I'm likely to again, no doubt, before I'm grey and old.'

Renshaw peeled her lips back in what could only be described as a sneer. The temperature in the room suddenly seemed to drop a few degrees. 'Careful, now, Professor. Were we in a dark room off of an abandoned corridor, statements like that might sound threatening.'

Zoe Meadows looked as if she was about to swallow her tongue.

'Were we in such a room, headmistress, I would consider unannounced guests as intruders.'

This time, Zoe actually gave a strangled little yelp. James had to wipe his clammy palms on the outsides of his trousers, so acutely was he feeling the mounting tension.

But Headmistress Renshaw broke the ice by throwing her head back and giving a low, husky laugh. She placed a hand on the back of James' chair, and he could feel her fingers alighting on his collar bone.

'Very well, Professors. This intruder shall intrude no longer. But I must relieve you of young master Potter. I wish a brief word. And it is, after all, just past curfew. Though I'm sure you were but moments away from sending him off to bed yourselves.'

'Of course, Headmistress. You are most welcome to him. Until next time, James.'

'Indeed,' Renshaw answered in James' stead. "Menacing" was the only way James could think to describe her tone. 'Next time.'

She bundled him from the room with a firm, steering grip on his shoulder. They strode in silence through the dark, deserted corridor, up a flight of poorly-lit stairs and onto a landing bathed in silvery moonlight by a high, arched window. Only then did the Headmistress pause. She spun James around to face her, and took one of his hands in both of her own. In the moonlit glow, the dark makeup shrouding her eyes made them appear as twinkling stars in caverns of shadow.

'I trust you recall our conversation, James?'

'Of course, Headmistress.'

'And you have had time to think it over?'

'I'm working on it. I need to see– I just need to be sure.'

He felt the headmistress twist his hand gently, placing his palm upright and splaying his fingers. She worked her thumbs in firm circles across his palm. The movements sent a warm sensation flooding all the way up his arm.

'I'm sure I don't need to ask you whether or not Professor Longbottom was telling the truth in there, do I?'

James thought the saw the window behind the headmistress sway for a moment. He put it down to the aftereffects of his Occlumency lessons.

'Of course not– I mean yes. He was. Telling the truth, that is.'

The Headmistress' features loomed large in James' vision. She continued working his palm with her fingers for a few moments later before finally stepping back, letting it fall to his side. James hadn't realised he'd been holding his breath, but he gave a long, shaky exhale.

'Very good, James. Thank you. One more thing, before you go. I trust also, that you recall the story I shared with you, the last time we spoke?'

James just nodded mutely. He could feel his damned headache coming back again, with a vengeance.

'Very good, my boy. You will recall that I was, at first, hesitant to act?'

James nodded once more.

'I elaborated very little beyond that, but I will grace you with some further details now, if you do not mind. The realisation that I had come to was this: that nothing is more contemptible than neutrality. And so, when I _did_ finally act, James, it was with surety, clarity, and finality. I would tell you to ask those whom I acted against to attest to this, but I think you'd find they have a hard time speaking these days. To anyone.'

James swallowed. He felt a cool bead of sweat trickle down the nape of his neck and had to fight the urge to visibly shudder. Headmistress Renshaw laid a hand upon his shoulder once more. 'Good night, James,' she said, and turned back down the stairwell, leaving James alone and cold and – he wasn't ashamed to admit it – a little scared.

'Watcha thinkin' about?'

'Gah! Merlin, Holly, what the _hell?'_

He had been alone not three seconds ago. And yet somehow, Holly Brooks had melted out of the very shadows themselves and goosed him. It took a good minute before his heart stopped hammering up around his larynx.

He turned around to face her, and saw any hint of playfulness evaporate from her smile. Replaced instead by cruel satisfaction. James grimaced, but decided not to push the issue. He turned instead to business.

'I've been trying to get a hold of you all week, and _now_ you decide to meet me?'

'I didn't _want_ to meet you all week. But now, you're having secret meetings with Zoe, and hushed conversations with Renshaw. Did you know she cast a _Muffliato_ spell around the two of you when you spoke just then? I couldn't hear a thing.'

'Good,' James said, with some satisfaction. 'Better that you didn't.'

'Don't pout James, it unmans you.'

'I want to talk about Rain,' he said firmly.

'Bloody hell, yell it across the castle, why don't you?'

James grabbed Holly by the upper arm and frogmarched her over to a shadowy recess beneath an unlit torch bracket. Likely the very place she'd been lurking to try and eavesdrop on his conversation with Renshaw.

'Listen, Holly. I thought about what you said–'

'There's a first time for everything.'

'But I need to be sure. I'd like to try and catch Rain in the act. If- if that's even what is happening here.'

'Oh, right. Don't take my word for it at all, then.'

'I _believe_ you Holly. That's why I'm here. But I need to be absolutely certain. She's my _friend_. I need to know what's happening. To see that she gets help, if she needs it, and that I'm not just dragging her into this again needlessly. She's been through enough already. I'd do this for any of my friends, Holly. I'd do the same for you.'

'Careful now, James. I need you to stop where you're nudging this conversation right now. I need you to take those thoughts and burn them in your mind. Burn them until they're ash, and then scatter them to the winds. That bridge has long since rusted away. I only told you this to save everybody else from your ego. From your naiveté and your self-assurance that you had everything figured out. The world according to James Potter.

'Don't talk to me of friendship, James Potter. Because I'd sell you out in a heartbeat.'

James chose to believe that Holly was lying. About the last part, at least. He had to, or else there was no hope for them at all. Instead, he breathed out slowly and calmly, and ran a hand through his hair to steady his nerve.

'Very well, then. Friends or not, I still need your help. Nobody can sneak through the castle like you can, Holly. Nobody knows the ins and outs, the shadows and the stalking. And, if things get messy, nobody else has ever… nobody has ever beaten Rain in a duel.'

'So that is what you think it will come to?'

'I hope with all my heart that it will not.'

Holly was silent for a very long time. She looked off over James' shoulder, back out across the landing they had been occupying. The puddle of moonlight bathed the rough-hewn flagstones in its pale glow. The layer of dust clearly showed the disturbance their presence had made. Footsteps led right to their little alcove. James suddenly hoped nobody would stumble across them.

'I will do it,' Holly finally said. Her pale grey eyes sparkled, as if they, too had captured some of the moon's soft glow.

'Thank you so much, Holly–'

She held up a hand to cut him off.

'I'm not doing it for you, James. Don't overstep yourself. Don't forget that. I'm doing it so that, when the time comes, I can make sure you choose the right decision. I'm doing it so that I can force your hand. Because, as you've clearly shown by seeking me out, for some unknown reason you still trust me. But I… I don't trust you at all.'

'So be it,' James said, hearing his voice empty of inflection. 'We'll do this together. And there will be no emotion whatsoever.'

Holly looked at him flatly. 'See that there isn't.'

And with that, she was gone, striding out of the alcove and off down the stairs, following after where Renshaw had walked. James stayed for a long time, staring off into the greyness after her. She'd told him he needed to make a choice. The _right _choice. But the more tangled this got, the more sides that became involved, the less certain James was that he could see right from wrong at all.


	16. Midnight Mockingbirds

_A/N: I appreciate that the cupboard of chapter updates has been a little bare lately. But we are back on track for a more regular, weekly schedule from now through to the end of this book. Thanks for bearing with. _

* * *

The nights were getting _cold._ James was never entirely sure how he always got caught by surprise. Every single year, some time around mid-November, it was as if somebody had flicked a switch. The evenings went from grey and mild to pitch black and frigid. The corridors became draughty and forbidding in all but the most well-travelled thoroughfares, and he would invariably realise he'd forgotten to pack enough sweaters. Such was the issue when one was forced to pack for the whole year in the balmy glow of an August evening.

But there was nothing for it, now. That much he knew. He could only tuck his hands into his armpits and stamp his slippered feet to keep them warm, wary though he was of causing too much noise. Not that anybody was likely to come across him. He was out well past curfew, once again. The Invisibility Cloak tucked into the back of his trousers had made his journey a relatively simple one. It had actually offered a little extra warmth, and James was considering donning it once more, though he wasn't entirely sure how Ava Adams might react to seeing a disembodied head floating around the corridors at the stroke of midnight.

The sacrifices he made for his friends.

He huddled a little closer to the single torch still burning, gaining what warmth he could from the feeble, sputtering glow.

The staircase he was currently lurking near had been termed the "long-drop" stair for much of Hogwarts' history. That was, until a first-year student had actually fallen from the rail-less stairway, and then it had mostly just been called "out of bounds". Although that had been over ten years ago, and the restrictions had laxed since then, few still used it. Most said it was haunted, with the first-year's ghost lurking in the shadows, waiting to jump out and scare students at an inopportune moment, hoping that they, too, would fall, so that he might have a friend to keep him company.

James shivered. This time, not entirely due to the cold.

He jumped when footsteps sounded in the corridor off to his left. He hurried to compose himself, cursing the recent spate of conspiratorial events that had left his nerves frayed and on edge.

As it turned out, he had plenty of time. The footfalls did not seem loud because they were close by. They seemed loud because they were, in fact, very loud. He listened, wincing slightly as they approached up multiple flights of stairs, dragging and clunking and once even stumbling – an act which was accompanied by a string of curses rich enough to make James raise an eyebrow. Eventually, Ava Adams strode into view, rosy-cheeked, and slightly out of breath.

James was fairly certain that he was no master of sneaking about. People like Holly had a knack for it that he knew he'd never master. But he did, at least, have the sense to understand that when secrecy was on order he shouldn't wear sequined slipper boots that reached up to his knees. Nor would he be inclined to come dressed in a garish, egg-yolk coloured sweater. And he most assuredly would not be present wearing a veritable menagerie of shiny metal bird clips in his hair, which winked and flashed and caught every skerrick of meagre torchlight all up and down the hall.

'Hi, James!' Ava Adams said brightly, favouring him with a broad, toothy grin and an energetic wave, despite the fact that they were stood two feet apart. James winced as her voice echoed up and down the abandoned stairwell.

'Hi, Ava,' James whispered back, gesturing for her to follow him a little ways back up the corridor and out of the stairwell. He hoped that she would take his lead and try to keep her voice down. 'It's great you're here and all, but you're erm… you're not exactly dressed for sneaking about.'

Ava looked at him, blinking owlishly. Her mouth had fallen agape in confusion. 'I didn't know we were going to be _sneaking!'_ she said.

James looked back at her. He tried not to put his face in his hands. 'What else did you expect to be doing at midnight in an abandoned corridor.'

'Well, I don't usually dres for that _at all!'_

'But I _told you_ what we were doing, and it wasn't _that.'_

Ava took a step backwards, and placed her hands on her hips. She pursed her lips into a perfect little pout and fixed James with a pointed stare. He felt a sudden overwhelming urge to apologise.

'James Potter, you _told _me that you had something to show me which would help Tristan get back on the team. Something that I needed to see in person. Something about the Hufflepuff council. Not _once_ did you mention sneaking, pilfering, snooping, or any other clandestine activity. And so, I came dressed for no such thing.'

'Yes, mum.'

'_What did you just say?'_

'Nothing. Nothing at all. Can we, er… could you at least lose the hair clips? They're a bit…'

Ava gave him a look that said he ought to be very careful about his next choice of words.

'A bit sparkly?'

Ava chewed on her lower lip uncertainly. 'It's how I do it for bed every night. If I take them out now it'll go all… Oh, very well. Promise you won't laugh?'

James nodded as solemnly as he could manage.

Ava removed the pins one by one. When the finished product was revealed, James found himself biting down firmly on his tongue and trying to look anywhere else that wasn't in the direction of a red-faced Ava Adams.

'James Potter are you _smirking?'_

'Nuh-uh.' James didn't trust himself to speak properly.

'Well then, why is that portrait of a toad suddenly _so_ interesting? You're trying not to laugh at my hair, aren't you?'

James shook his head most enthusiastically.

'It looks fine,' he croaked.

Ava smacked his shoulder and pouted spectacularly. A move which was ruined somewhat by the frazzled bird's nest of hair sticking up every which way atop her head.

'I hope you're happy,' she huffed.

Unsure how he ought to answer that one, James simply shrugged, and got down to business, explaining to Ava their goal for the night, and just what they were supposed to be witnessing. Ava grew suddenly serious – an odd look, for her – and nodded silently as James explained the situation.

'So, you're still in?' he asked, a little uncertainly when he had finished laying it out. Now that he spoke it aloud for the first time, it seemed a touch hare-brained. And almost certain to lead to disaster.

But Ava nodded resolutely. 'Of course,' she said. Then, after a while, added. 'My very own James Potter adventure. Ooh, just wait till I tell the girls. They're going to be _so_ jealous.'

James, once again unsure how to answer, busied himself with checking that his wand was tucked securely into his waistband for the thirteenth time.

'Let's go,' he finally whispered.

They crept out from the shadows of their landing and onto the comparatively well-lit stair. James led them upwards, slowly and tentatively, as the lack of a railing, and the staircase's notoriety for sudden changes meant that caution ruled. They crept up a single flight step by step. The sleeping portraits on the walls around them dozed on. The light of the sparse torches was just enough to see by.

A sudden gasp from Ava, behind him, caused James' shoulder muscles to tense, and his hand dart for his wand.

'Oh, James, don't look down,' she whispered shakily. 'That was a very bad idea.'

'You play Quidditch!' James hissed back. 'You spend half your life fifty feet in the air.'

Ava didn't reply, only blushed and grabbed a handful of James' shirt to remain close as they continued creeping upwards.

By the time they reached the fifth floor landing the staircase had narrowed until it was barely the width of James' shoulders. They'd been forced into a single file march, and Ava had nearly squealed when a staircase down below them moved suddenly, sending a shock of vibrations up through their feet, strong enough to rattle James' teeth. They'd hunkered down and waited it out, Ava clutching painfully to James' arm. When they alighted on the fifth-floor landing, there were audible sighs of relief from both of them.

'Alright,' James breathed, checking his watch. 'In through here. We've still got a few minutes. _Alohomora.'_

The lock clicked up after a brief flash of blue light from his wand, and he gently swung open the door. The room into which he led Ava was pitch-dark, and the meagre grey gloom that spilled in from the stairwell provided little to no illumination.

'_Lumos,'_ James hissed, keeping his wand low to the ground. Nevertheless, the light from its tip was more than sufficient to reveal a small, but comfortable space, dominated by a modest oak desk with brass fixings, nearly smothered by a dozen precarious-looking stacks of parchment. Against one wall stood a low chest, it's top adorned with the sort of sentimental trophies that meant nothing to James, but were surely dear to the heart of the owner. The opposite wall was decorated by scores of posters and paintings and photos of young witches wearing all sorts of bizarre and wondrous items of clothing that James could only dismiss as "fashion". Beneath the posters was a large cupboard. Their destination.

'Oh, my goodness. I _love_ that robe,' Ava gasped, eyeing up a young, blonde witch winking and waving whilst wearing something the colour of vomit.

James grabbed Ava by the sleeve and pulled her firmly into the cupboard, closing the door behind them.

'_Nox,'_ he whispered. But not before his wandlight had illuminated a pair of wooden legs, intricately carved with scrollwork and swallows in mid-flight.

'This is Professor Meadows' private office!' Ava hissed. 'We aren't supposed to be in here!'

'Exactly,' James nodded in the darkness. 'So the people we're about to catch will be in _extra_ trouble– ow, that was my toe.'

'Sorry. It's so cramped in here.'

'_Ow,_ that was my other toe. What are those slippers made of, bricks?'

'You watch your tongue. These cost ten Galleons, I'll have you know. Ouch, no, don't stand there, now I can't breathe.'

'Sorry. Shoot, there's no room this way.'

'Aai! Good God, James Potter, if you grab hold of that again, I'll Hex you into next week!'

'Sorry! Sorry, I thought it was a coat.'

'As _if._ How's that?'

'Better.'

They'd finally folded themselves around one another in the least-uncomfortable way possible. Whereby James was only forced to eat a small amount of Ava's hair, her elbow was only mildly jabbing his larynx, and both of his hands were well and truly above board. But, more importantly, a tiny crack between the double-doors of the cupboard afforded them a view of the Professor's desk, and the stacks of parchment that were threatening to bury it.

They didn't have long to wait.

Noises soon sounded from the corridor outside. Hushed, frantic whispers, followed by fumbling with the door. The lock clicked open easily and the door slid ajar on oiled hinges. The glare of wandlight hid the identity of the figures that entered the room, but James was certain that they were in the right place. He counted three of them. Three large, looming figures entered one after the other, softly closing the door behind them. They kept their wands drawn, the light held low so as to minimise the glow and not risk alerting any potential professors passing by on night duty. They spoke barely at all, and moved purposefully across the small room towards the desk with comfortable familiarity. This clearly wasn't the first time they'd been here.

'Oh my goodness, it's Avery Hitchens!' Ava exclaimed in James' ear.

He jammed an elbow into her ribs to keep her voice down, but at the same time shifted slightly so that she could get a better view. The figures had come alongside their cabinet, and with the wandlight illuminating the papers on the desk, their profiles were exposed in a perfect position for James and Ava to see.

'And that's Jordan Minkenberry,' she breathed softly. 'And the girl is Haley Hart. They're seventh years.'

'I think we just found the core of your Hufflepuff Council,' James whispered in reply.

The three outside suddenly stopped. A low voice rumbled from the figure nearest them. But a female voice – Haley Hart – replied with something calming, and they bent back to the task at hand.

James couldn't hear the few words that were shared between the three. But he didn't need to, as he could plainly see just what they were up to.

They were rifling precisely and steadily through all of the stacks of parchment on Professor Meadows' desk. It dawned on James that these must be the students' homework. Tests that the professor hadn't got around to marking yet. From all seven years, by the looks of it. Every so often, one of the three would make a noise like a soft hiss, and they'd gather round the single sheet of parchment. There would be a brief moment of conferring, then, with a wave of her wand, Haley Hart would – presumably – change what was written on the sheet. In the few minutes since they had been there, James had already seen them alter a dozen sheets.

'Lies,' Ava gasped beside him, coming to the same realisation as James had. 'It's all lies.'

James tried to make calming movements, but he could feel Ava beside him, practically shaking with rage.

'Hard work,' she hissed in James' ear. '_Hard work._ It gets results. Study. Diligence. Enthusiasm. All the things they tell us about. All the things that make us Hufflepuffs. Loyalty, hah! Lies and more lies, all of it.'

'Shh, Ava,' James whispered, grabbing hold of her arm. Any louder, and they were sure to hear her. Only the rustling of the parchment had saved them thus far.

'Oh, _how _they commend us, James. They make such song and dance about how well we do in class. These three. This council. They parade the students before us like paragons of virtue. To show us what we can achieve through _hard work._ And all the while, they're sitting there, pulling strings and laughing at us. At how _stupid_ we are.'

'Ava, please,' James begged.

'Can you not _imagine,_ James. The very thing that you had been told was most important in life. The thing you prized above all others. That you had been told _defines you_ as a person turns out to be a lie. We can't let them do it!'

'What was that?'

This time, James heard the voice clearly. Deep and low and menacing. The three figures froze. Wands were raised, beams of light flickered around the room, glaring suddenly brilliant when they fell upon the crack in the doors of James' cupboard. Neither he nor Ava dared even breathe.

'This fucking door's open!'

Haley Hart's voice. She was the figure furthest from James and Ava. James craned to see her wandlight illuminating the rear entrance to the Professor's office. And the door through which they'd entered – disguised as to look like another section of wall, stood ajar. They'd forgotten to close it on their way in.

James' heart froze. Ava whimpered beside him. He couldn't move to try and free his wand. Not without knocking the cupboard door open. All they could do was hope.

'Is someone here?' came the low, gravelly voice. James thought that one was Avery Hitchens. Soft footsteps sounded as he paced the room, out of sight of James' narrow field of vision.

'Come on out, little mouse,' Haley cackled, a wicked edge to her voice.

The third one, Jordan Minkenberry, was staring pointedly at a couple of the portraits on the opposite wall, and trying to pry one loose, as if it might conceal further secret passages.

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' Ava whispered in James' ear.

Footsteps approached their cupboard. James guessed it was Haley Hart coming their way. He could hear her humming a little tune, stopping every now and then to laugh manically.

'Are you in here, little mouse?' she asked. And suddenly, a ray of wandlight flared bright enough to blind James. It shone right into the crack between the cupboard. He flinched out of the way. His head connected with something hard, and he heard a sharp intake of breath from Ava behind him. All sounds from the room outside had stopped, save for a single set of footsteps.

_Click-tap. Click-tap._

James could hear Haley's breathing now. The humming had stopped. He could make nothing out beyond the glaring light. Still, he could not reach his wand. His arm was now trapped behind Ava's back.

_Tap-tap-tap._

The sound of Haley's wand on the door of the cupboard. Ava gasped. Nails dug into James' exposed forearm where she clutched it desperately. He paused, tensed his muscles. He'd have to try and surprise her–

'C'mon, Haley, quit messing around. Nobody's here. We need to get this done. Meadows is on next duty, and she always stops by here to make a tea around one-thirty.'

The wandlight lowered. James relaxed his muscles. He heard Ava sigh with relief in his ear.

'Sorry Avery, I was just having a bit of _fun–!'_

This time Ava actually squealed, as Haley spun suddenly and threw the doors open. James had half a second to kick his brain into gear and act. He rushed forward, ramming his shoulder into Haley. He felt it collide with something hard. A squeal. A bang. And a flash of brilliant light. Ava's death-grip on his sleeve dragged her along behind him as James finally withdrew his wand and fired a shower of golden sparks over his head to disorient the older Hufflepuffs.

'Get them!' cried Avery.

'It was Potter!' growled Jordan.

Haley Hart, meanwhile, was writhing on the ground with a hand clapped to her face and blood trickling between her fingers from the tongue she'd just bitten clean through.

But James had no time at all to worry about any of this. He bolted for the door, low and fast. Now thankful that they had left it open. He dove through it, just as an explosion near his head set his ears to ringing violently. Ava tumbled out behind him. They bounced, rolled, and pushed themselves to their feet.

'C'mon!' James urged, leading Ava off down the stairs.

There was the sound of cursing from above them. Then Haley Hart's evil cackle. A sudden gout of flame whooshed by just above their heads.

'Jesus _Christ!'_ Ava swore.

'Muggles won't save you, Ava. _Reducto!'_

James' return spell sent Jordan Minkenberry diving for cover, and a portrait behind him exploded in a shower of canvas and gilt-lined wood.

They ran as fast as they dared on the narrow, rail-less stair. Each time they zig-zagged across the open expanse below, they left themselves open to fire from above.

'What do we do?!' Ava cried, cowering behind James as a jet of purple light crashed into the staircase above them.

'Your wand, Ava!' James roared. 'Or, if not that, then run!'

Ava chose the second option, pushing by James and bolting to the relative cover of a landing up ahead. There was a terrifying moment where James teetered on the very edge of the stair, his arms cartwheeling, before he fell backwards onto his tailbone, jarring his whole body with the landing.

But it probably saved him, as two jets of orange light crackled through the air just above his head, leaving behind them the static charge and smell of burnt ozone characteristic of powerful spells.

'_Impedimenta!'_ James roared. A deep grunt echoed through the stairwell. James leaped forward to join Ava on the landing. 'Keep going!' he urged her.

The next stair had a sharp switchback. They bolted down it, James in the lead, alternating between casting protective shields and returning fire. He relied on instinct more than vision to guide him.

But halfway down a terrible shudder came from beneath their feet. The ground shrugged, the stair groaned, and he turned to watch in horror as it detached from the landing above and below them, slowly spinning on the spot without warning. James and Ava both stumbled. James' knee hit the stone hard, and pain flared brightly up his entire left leg. A cry of victory from above, and Haley Hart's triumphant yell. '_Glisseo!'_

The world was transformed into sliding, careening mayhem for a few, panicked moments. James knew they were still two stories from the ground. A fall now would be fatal. But there was no purchase at all to be found. His feet slipped from under him. His shoulder collided with stone. His teeth crashed together painfully. He felt his wrist connect with something soft and heard a squeal of pain from Ava. They slid, they rolled, there was a terrifying moment of being suspended in mid-air…

And they crashed into something soft that gave way beneath them, and rolled to a stop. James' knee was agony, his shoulder throbbed, and he'd bitten his cheek hard enough to taste blood. He had an upside-down view of a tapestry falling back into place over the portal they'd just fallen through, and heard muffled, confused and angry voices from the stairwell they'd just vacated, arguing and trying to find where they'd disappeared to.

James and Ava lay perfectly still for a moment, ears straining, trying to listen for words among the murmuring voices. Eventually, the sounds faded. They'd caused enough of a commotion to draw attention from at least one professor. The Hufflepuffs would need to tidy up Zoe Meadows' office, or there would be hell to pay.

'Everything okay?' James whispered into the darkness.

'Fine,' came the sullen reply.

'_Lumos.'_

James lit his wand, but kept it low to the floor, casting a silvery glow up and down the space they found themselves in. It was too small to stand up in, but they could sit comfortably enough. James winced, as he propped himself up against one wall, letting his damaged knee straighten out before him.

They sat in silence for a long time. James went through all of his aches and pains one by one. His knee and shoulder were by far the worst, but he was confident both would come right of their own accord. He wished he knew enough healing magic so that he could stop tasting blood every time he swallowed.

Eventually, the silence was broken by a small, plaintive sound. A sob from Ava.

'Ava, are you okay?'

Silence, and another soft sob before she answered.

'Yes. I mean, no. I mean, I'm not hurt, if that's what you're asking.'

'I'm asking if you're okay, Ava.'

Another long pause.

'I feel dirty, James. I feel responsible. As if I'm as guilty as they are. I feel like everything I've done here over the last six years has all been for nothing. A lie.'

'That's not true, Ava.'

'Was it really worth it?' she asked. James didn't reply. He couldn't. 'All we've done, tonight, really, is trade one headache for another. A bigger one. Sure, maybe we help Tristan. But now, what am I to do, knowing about this. How can I look anybody in the eyes ever again? How can I call myself a Hufflepuff?'

'Knowledge,' James said, remembering Renshaw's words. 'Brings chains. Chains that bind you to action. It is a burden heaped upon us. Often, we don't ask for it. But we get it all the same.'

'That's the problem, though, James. I don't _know_ what to do.'

James sat up a little straighter, and leaned forward to look Ava in the eyes. He reached out and lay a hand upon her knee.

'Ava, you are the most kind and genuine person I know. If there's anybody who can figure out what to do, it's you.'

Ava just scoffed, and looked away up the cramped crawlspace, out into the grainy grey that yawned beyond the bubble of James' wandlight.

'There's nothing genuine, James. Not anymore. Not about me, at least. You saw what those three were doing. How much of Hogwarts has been once big, ignorant lie for me? For all of us poor, _stupid_ Hufflepuffs.'

James sighed and leaned back, resting his head against the cool, hard stone.

'Ava, you are the best Chaser I've ever met. You fly circles around almost any person on the pitch. You whole team– this whole _school_ knows how talented you are. And I've seen how much effort you put in. I've seen you in the pouring rain, when it's so dark you can barely see, still practicing manoeuvres on the pitch. I've seen you be the last person to leave the pitch in the evenings, and the first to arrive the next morning. I've seen you train harder, and longer, and more than anybody else in this school.

'And nobody– _nobody_ can fake that, Ava. That talent, that breathtaking talent, it comes from within you. But more than that, it comes from the hard work you put in. So don't ever forget that, Ava. Because it's the most honest thing there is.'

There was silence again for a long time. James could just make out Ava's features in the gloom. They were distant, wrapped up in thought. Her shadowed eyes were gazing somewhere over James' shoulder. Finally, she shifted her weight slightly and let out a long sigh.

'James?'

'I'm here.'

'Thanks.'

'Any time.'

'I think… I think I'm going to rest here for a bit, before I go back to the common room.'

James didn't relish the thought of hiking up five stories with his knee still throbbing. 'Good idea. Me too.'

He awoke the next morning when slivers of sunlight began eking through the tapestry at the end of his tunnel. His knee was stiff, but usable. His back ached from the awkward sleeping position. And he was entirely alone. Ava Adams was nowhere to be seen. Only a single, glittering hairclip, a black-and-yellow mockingbird, placed carefully into James' left hand, gave any indication that she'd ever even been there at all.


	17. Rain-Soaked Regrets

Cold, driving wind blew icy needles into every inch of exposed flesh, and sent frozen fingers grasping down collars and up sleeves. Persistent rain slanted in across the pitch. First one way, and then another, caught and blown hither and thither on eddies of the gale that became frantically trapped within the confines of the stadium. Far out above the pitch, away from the relative shelter of James' seat in the stands, figures darted and whipped through the winds, looking little more than leaves scattered on a whimsical breeze.

With hands tucked firmly into armpits, James squinted through the rain-haze. The intricacies of a Rain-Repelling Charm were far beyond the fifth-year curriculum, and even Cassie's best effort had begun to wear thin, as the small puddles pooling at James' feet could attest to. Beside him, Fred yelled something, followed closely by a groan. James winced, as a bone-jarring collision played out at midfield. The dark smudge of the falling Quaffle was soon lost to a thick veil of falling rain.

To James' left, Al was busy trying to conjure up a bluebell flame to keep the chill away. But everything he managed just hissed and sputtered in the rain, and danced and skipped chaotically beneath the gusting wind, clouding their eyes with acrid smoke one moment, and threatening to catch their sneakers alight the next.

The three of them had a whole section of the stadium to themselves, so poor was the match attendance. The sudden storm that had hurtled down from the mountains to the north had kept all of the "sensible" students indoors, as Cassie had firmly put it, when James offered her to come along. Although now, with a big, fat raindrop sliding suddenly down the neck of his collar, James was beginning to see her reasoning.

And if he thought she'd have let him get away with anything other than a gruelling study session, he might have joined her and Clip in a cosy corner of the library. Then again, he'd managed to spy them holding hands as they retreated off up the Grand Staircase that morning. They were far less surreptitious than they gave themselves credit for. Perhaps it was set to be one "study session" that he really didn't want to be privy to.

He certainly hadn't needed to think too long about joining Cat going flower picking down near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Cassie had warned her at length of the dozen or so chills she was likely to catch. Fred called her a whole suite of unflattering names when she couldn't hear, but Rain had decided to join her. The weather, weirdly, seemed to cheer her up immensely.

And so, only Fred and Al had decided to join him. Fred had spent the whole trip down to the pitch giving James pointed looks and secret smiles, and filling in an otherwise-oblivious Al on all of the dramas of James' break-up with Odette.

They were, after all, watching Slytherin play Hufflepuff. And the significance – if there even really _was_ any significance – was not lost on Fred.

'Everyone's talking about you and Ava, mate,' Fred turned and yelled at James. Under any other circumstances, James would have told him to put a sock in it, but as they were the sole inhabitants of this section of the stand, and James could barely hear him anyway, he decided to let it slide.

'There's nothin' to talk about!' James yelled back.

'You're stuffing _what?'_

'I _said–_ oh, never mind.'

Annoyingly, Fred flashed James a wink and a thumbs-up.

Out on the pitch, a golden-clad figure swooped past their seats, mesmerizingly fast. James gasped as a Bludger roared out of the gloom, but the figure executed a perfect sloth-grip roll and ducked underneath it. James caught a flash of red hair – it could have only been Ava – and then a faint cheer, as if from a great distance. Goal to Hufflepuff.

A sudden gust of wind drove the rain sideways into their faces, and the last gasp of Cassie's Rain Repellent Charm gave out. James was almost instantly soaked.

'Bloody wet,' he growled, gesturing out at the pitch.

'Quit bragging!' Fred yelled back.

In a desperate attempt to steer the conversation away from his non-existent love-life, James turned to Al.

'What about those Ravenclaw birds who were following you around, mate?' he asked.

Apparently able to hear _this_ without any difficulty whatsoever, Fred shuffled over to join in.

'There were three of them, weren't there?'

'Five,' Al corrected, yelling into the wind.

James nearly swallowed his tongue.

'You git!' Fred laughed. 'And I have a hard time trying to hold down one!'

'That's because they all think you're as likely to set fire to them as you are to give them a cuddle.'

'Once,' Fred scowled. 'That happened once. And everyone should know, you don't grab the arse of a man who's lighting fireworks!'

James could only shake his head. He'd seen the poor girl, scorched hair and all, sprinting off across the castle grounds with tears in her eyes. Admittedly, Leah Ridley and Rosalie Gardner had troubled James and Fred much less, after that.

'So where are your lovebirds?' James asked, making a show of looking around the stand. 'They weren't up for a romantic afternoon in the sleet?'

Al shrugged, a little shyly. 'They sort of don't talk to me so much any more.'

A ragged cheer drifted their way. James turned and squinted out on the pitch, sheltering his eyes from the worst of the rain. Slytherin had just scored a goal. The time had long since passed when James had been able to keep track of the score. He could hardly even see one end of the pitch.

'The shine's worn off the old Quidditch stardom, has it?' Fred joked.

'Not exactly…' Al shrugged, suddenly recalcitrant. Annoyingly, the Rain-Repelling Charm he had had cast upon _him_ was still working fine. James was starting to think Cassie had done it on purpose.

'Do tell,' Fred said with an eager grin.

'We spent a night last week in an unused classroom together–'

'O-_ho!'_ Fred roared.

'You _what?!'_ James yelled.

'Relax,' Al said, holding out his hands in a placating gesture. 'Nothing happened. We just sort of… hung out. Rose had filled me in on what I was supposed to do. She said that under no circumstance was I to try any "hanky-panky" she called it. And that maybe, if one of them approached me, then I could… you know… but only one, that was it.

'But I didn't know which one! They were all so nice…'

Fred was just shaking his head in despair. 'You're a clot. You're a total, utter pillock, Albus Potter. Do you know that?'

'_Hey! _I got an "O" on my Charms test last week.'

'Let me rephrase. You're an idiot where it counts, then. The first rule of engagement is that you don't ask a girl advice about other girls! That's like… like asking a fish how to cook a fish. They're going to tell you to leave it in the ocean!'

'I'm not sure the validity of this analogy. I'm not going to be eating any of them…'

James just smirked. 'Boy, have I got a book for you…'

Fred and Al continued to banter back and forth, but James turned his focus inwards for a moment. Inaction. It had cost Al his chance with the Ravenclaw girls. It was the other side of Renshaw's sword. And, perhaps, it cut even deeper. The consequences of inaction were often worse, and more permanent than those of acting decisively. He would be chained to those decisions he _didn't_ make, just as surely as he would be to the ones he did. At least, James thought, if he _did_ act, he could feel like he was influencing matters himself, instead of this constant feeling of being pulled along in a current, and whilst everybody else had boats, he was struggling to keep his head above water.

He just needed to figure out which course of action was the right one.

Thankfully, Fred eventually snapped James out of his dreary reverie with a most excellent suggestion.

'Hey, let's move back a few rows. These charms are all but gone, and I'm soaked.'

The three boys turned their back on the pitch for a moment, and welcomed the relative calm of the seats near the back of the stand. The view wasn't nearly as good, but there was almost no rain pelting them, and the worst of the wind did little more than gently stir the hairs on their heads. Fred relaxed with a big sigh and leaned back, resting his feet on the seat in front. Al, obviously deciding he couldn't see the match sufficiently well to warrant straining his eyes, pulled out a book and made as if to start studying.

'I've got a question,' James suddenly blurted out.

'Fire away,' Fred said.

He had to force his mind to catch up with his words, as he struggled to find a way to phrase what he wanted to say without alerting either of them. Eventually, he took inspiration from his surroundings, and cleared his throat to speak.

'What do you two think I ought to do if… if I had a suspicion that somebody was sneaking into the spare broom shed behind the pitch and Hexing some of the brooms?'

Al snapped his book closed with a _whump._ Fred sat bolt upright, suddenly paying full attention.

'Who was it?' Al asked.

'A Slytherin, no doubt,' Fred growled.

'_Hypothetically_,' James stressed, holding up his hands. 'What should I do?'

'Hold them down and stuff enough incendiaries down their trousers to send them to Jupiter,' Fred urged, flashing a handful of such devices, summoned from nowhere, to go with an evil, calculating grin.

_Not entirely helpful,_ James thought. He decided to give them a little more prodding.

'What if I'm not sure, right now? What if… I know who the person is, I've seen them skulking around the broom shed with their wand out, but I'm not entirely sure that they _are_ Hexing the brooms. They might be… cleaning them.'

Fred gave James a level stare. 'You and I both know that those brooms haven't been cleaned since we started Hogwarts. Probably not since the last war. What's this really about?'

'Just… answer the question,' James urged. 'Hypothetically.'

Fred crossed his arms. 'I'm assuming you can't _hypothetically_ force this person at wandpoint to saddle up on one of these brooms and try it out for themselves?'

'Hypothetically not.'

'Then you need to find out just what it is they're _hypothetically_ doing in that broom shed, and fast.'

'And if they _are_ Hexing the brooms?'

'I'm assuming the incendiaries option is still off the cards?'

James stared back flatly. But it was Al, not Fred, who replied.

'I'm not quite sure I'm up to speed on just what you two are hypothesising about, but if you ask me, James, you need to do something about it. I think you would need to go and tell a professor. Longbottom, or Miss Meadows, perhaps. I know you fancy her.'

'_Oi, _you git. Do you not think I should confront her– _them._ Confront _them. _Nobody wants to be known as a tattler.'

Al was quiet for a moment. He rubbed at some non-existent fluff on his chin while he thought.

'No,' he finally said, with certainty. 'I don't think you should. Hexing broomsticks is serious business, James. People could get hurt. We all know the story about Dad when he was in first year. It's about keeping people safe, James. It has to be. How you feel about your reputation doesn't really matter, in this instance. And if all you do is confront them, what's to stop them turning around and doing it again behind your back? The _only_ time I'd take that option, was if I knew that I could trust this person entirely.

'_Can_ you do that, James? Can you trust this person?'

James looked away, seeing the truth reflected back at him in Fred and Al's mirrored gazes. 'I don't know,' he whispered softly.

Mercifully, a commotion from the pitch put an end to any further hypothesising. A brief lessening of the rain had peeled back the curtains and revealed much of the scene below. James could see, down near midfield, a streak of green diving towards a spot mere inches above the turf. A golden streak from the opposite end of the pitch was the Hufflepuff Seeker, joining in the chase. Bludgers flew. Odette dodged one gracefully. A second splattered harmlessly into the mud over the Hufflepuff Seeker's shoulder.

James winced, anticipating the collision of bodies a moment before it occurred. There was a wet sort of _thud_ that echoed even over the sound of the wind and rain, and both Seekers collapsed into the ground, motionless.

James couldn't stop himself. He darted to the edge of the stand and gripped the railing, peering down at the green and gold figures. His sigh of relief came, not when the Hufflepuff Seeker eventually sprung up, waving the Snitch above her head enthusiastically, but when Odette eventually pushed herself up on shaky legs, and staggered off in the direction of the Slytherin lockers.

'Hufflepuff will be hard to beat this year,' Fred said. 'They might go back to back.'

James gave a non-committal noise from the back of his throat. As much as he hated to admit it, Fred was probably right. He contented himself by leading the group off down the stairwell, already planning on locking himself away in a quiet room to do a lot of thinking and soul-searching.

But it was going to have to wait.

'There he is! James, get over here, you wonderful human!'

'That's our cue to leave,' Fred muttered, as Ava Adams bounded in from the pitch, dripping wet and splashed head-to-toe with mud.

Al just gaped, pointing listlessly between James and Ava. 'Are you _really_…'

'_No,'_ James growled, and the same time that Fred smirked and said 'Yes!'

The both of them disappeared, with Fred throwing his arm over Al's shoulders and promising to fill him in on "the rest of it" on their way up to the castle.

'You came to watch!' Ava squealed, wrapping James up in a very impromptu – and very muddy – hug.

'Er, yeah,' James said lamely, wiping a smear of turf from his cheek. 'You know, got to keep an eye on the competition, and all.'

'And how did we look?' Ava asked with mock-seriousness, striking a heroic, mud-streaked pose.

James, forgetting himself, only mumbled, 'You look amazing.'

'What's that?'

'Nothing. It was an, erm… close game. I think?'

'How fantastic is wet-weather Quidditch?' Ava asked, beaming.

'Err…' James eloquently replied.

'We were a little soft in defence on the left wing. We played the coverage too tight, and their Chasers are too big and burly for us, they kept muscling us off the Quaffle.'

James nodded, and finally managed to find his voice. 'The trick is actually to cover them _even tighter._ They're big and burly, but none-too-bright. Get up in their face and they get all mad and flustered, then they couldn't toss a Quaffle through a barn door.'

'Ugh, I tried that. Look what they gave me for my troubles.'

Ava rolled up a sleeve of her robe to reveal – somewhere beneath the thick coating of mud – a massive purplish bruise.

'Ouch.'

'You betcha. _Aaa-anyway,_ I bet you're wondering why I'm so happy today?'

'Honestly, I just thought you were happy all the time.'

'Heavens, no! Have you heard the news? Tristan's back on the team! I had him sit out this match, while he gets familiar with the playbook, but next game he'll be back in business!'

'Excellent!' James smiled. 'Hold on a minute, don't we play you next?'

'Sure do!'

'Great.'

Ava flashed him a bright, toothy smile, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet excitedly. James had to force himself to maintain eye contact.

'Thanks, James. For everything. I couldn't have done it without you. And you were right, about what you said, with the Quidditch. Nobody can take that away from me.'

'Would that I could for your next match against Gryffindor.'

Ava smiled again. 'The girls were _extremely_ jealous of my James Potter adventure, by the way.'

'I do have the best adventures.'

This time, Ava's smile was a flighty, nervous thing. There and gone before James was sure he'd even seen it.

'P-perhaps there'll be another adventure, sometime soon?'

James smiled, as a feeling in his stomach a little like vertigo swooped over him. 'I'll start making the plans right now.'

Ava laughed, and darted in for a final, quick hug. But James had less than a second to enjoy it before a green-clad figure rounded the corner ahead of him and planted fists on shapely hips.

'Ava Adams,' Odette drawled. 'How very unsurprising to catch you here, rubbing your tits all over Potter.'

Ava stepped back, calmly folding her arms and staring quite pointedly at Odette's chest.

'Well, I suppose _somebody_ has to show him what it feels like, for a change.'

'_Why_, you–'

'Bye, James!' Ava giggled. 'See you later.'

And with that, Ava skipped off, back out into the downpour, as if it wasn't even raining at all.

'I assume you're seeking me out for a reason, Odette,' James said flatly. 'And not just to start a fight.'

Odette made her way over to him. An act that was far more drawn-out than usual, owing to the severe limp she was currently sporting. If anything, she was even more dishevelled than Ava, having fallen face-first into the mud-soaked pitch not ten minutes prior.

'Which one of us did you come to watch?' Odette finally asked, resting on a nearby wall for support.

James sighed heavily. 'I'll tell you the same thing I told Ava. I was coming purely in my capacity as the Captain of Gryffindor team. I need to understand the competition. It was you who taught me that, after all.'

Odette gave a mud-streaked smile. 'You're lying to one of us, then. And, if you believe that nonsense, to yourself as well. No matter. It doesn't bother me at all.'

'Good.'

'Good.'

There was an awkward pause. Odette tried to shift her weight, but gave a gasp of pain, and leant more heavily on the wall.

'Do you want me to…' James started, half raising a hand.

Odette shook her head, pale beneath the dirt streaking her face. Eventually, she got her pain under control and the mask fell into place once more.

'I got offered the position. I thought I'd let you know. With the Magpies. I accepted, too. Training camp starts a week after term finishes. I'm going to be the only Seeker on their roster, and they're paying me one-hundred-and-fifty Galleons per match! The older players get more, but if I play well, they could increase it to two-fifty for next year.'

James would have had to have been blind _and_ deaf to miss the way Odette's excitement was bubbling over. She'd even gone so far as to push aside their enmity to share the joy with him.

'Congratulations, Odette. I'm happy for you.'

'I- wait. I thought you didn't want me to do it?'

'I didn't. But maybe you were right, maybe I was just being selfish, not wanting to lose you to the League. Either way, it's no longer my place to say, so I hope it brings you happiness.'

The shock was writ plain on Odette's features. James didn't take any pleasure in it, he simply noted that it was there.

'Th-thanks, James. It will.'

There was another awkward silence. This one, though, didn't feel as if it had been scripted by Odette. James had the feeling that she was genuinely at a loss.

'We had a good run, didn't we, James,' she finally said in a very small voice.

James pressed his lips into a thin line, trying not to let emotion show on his face. He didn't want to let on how her words twisted the knife within him. He couldn't afford to pick at a wound that hadn't yet healed.

'We did.'

'Maybe we were right to end it. We were little like a car with no brakes, you and I. We sped down a hill, faster and faster, and boy, if it wasn't the most exhilarating thing in my life. But I think we always knew – and that added to the thrill – that it had to end. And that the longer we left it, the messier the crash would be. Perhaps it was the right decision, after all.'

James didn't speak. He didn't trust himself to. He only gave a small, affirmatory sound, and a nod of his head. But as Odette stood there, bloodied and bruised, her mud-soaked hair matted to her scalp, and her shoulders slumped in defeat, James knew that she was no less gorgeous than she'd ever been. And he wasn't sure if, again, he was lying to the both of them.

'I'll see you around, Odette,' he said, needing to get away.

Odette shrugged. 'Maybe.'

She turned and limped off. James stood a long time and watched her leave. He thought long on the choices he'd made to bring him to this point. He mused on decisiveness and conviction. And he decided that he needed to set this paralysis aside, and _act_.

He looked off in the direction that Ava had headed a few moments ago. He needed to act on multiple fronts.


	18. Under Attack

The days at Hogwarts grew shorter. The nights grew colder, and somehow, darker. Misty November mornings crystallised into frigid December frosts. Dustings of snow on the distant peaks blossomed like great white lilies to coat whole mountainsides. Puddles shattered underfoot, leaving shards like broken glass.

And the wind that moaned through the halls of Hogwarts castle misted breath, raised hairs, and set the students to rummaging through their trunks for the thickest of coats, the woolliest of mittens. They travelled in packs, as if to share body heat. They gravitated to hearth and torch, like great moths, hugging the firelight as if it gave life.

Winter had come. It had wrapped itself so firmly around the castle that the students couldn't move for feeling its frosty breath stinging their cheeks and watering their eyes.

And through it all, the sun rose, the moon wheeled, and James Potter had dreams haunted by the Unmaking.

He tossed and turned beneath the watchful gaze of the stars, discarding his blankets despite the chill. Cool sweat pricked his skin, and his eyelids fluttered fitfully. His muscles strained against unseen bonds, and every so often, a soft growl would escape his parted lips.

He was living in a world of melting rooms, of locked doors and faces that unravelled whenever he looked upon them. He was haunted by screams. Rain's scream. He saw her strapped to a bed, writhing beneath the ministrations of that unknown witch. The witch who had nearly killed her, and then given her own life in Rain's stead. And behind it all, loomed dark faces, mysterious, shrouded shapes that tried to tug and pull him in this direction or that, but whichever way he turned, a great yawning pit opened beneath his feet and he fell and fell until his eyes snapped open and he would shoot upright in his bed, sweat-soaked and dreading the moment his eyes would close once more, and he'd live it all again.

One such December night, James decided he'd had enough. He slipped his feet over the edge of the bed and fetched some socks and jocks. As the sweat cooled on his body and brought on a wave of shivers, he grabbed his thickest Quidditch jersey and threw his father's Invisibility Cloak over top of it all.

He padded from the room with his wand in his hand. His nightmares had shaken off most of the sleep haze, and his mind was already churning. Outside, a pregnant gibbous moon waxed close to full, and provided ample light for James to ghost through the corridors alone and unaided. He knew these upper reaches of the castle so well by now, that he didn't even bother to disguise his head, using the Cloak for warmth more than secrecy. He stopped to listen at each corner, but without a _Lumos_ spell shining like a beacon around him and ruining his night vision, he knew he already had an upper hand over any prefects, professors or other patrollers of the night.

He made his way over to the Ravenclaw Tower, for lack of any other place to go. His feet led him up the tight, winding staircase. A draft stirred the hem of the Cloak, and threatened to set James' teeth to chattering. Before long, he'd reached the top of the stair, and stood facing the brass eagle knocker, lost deep in thought.

'Well, floating head. Are you going to speak, or did you lose the capacity for that when you lost the rest of your body?'

James started, feeling his heart jolt in his chest. 'I'm a whole human,' he assured the door. 'Look.'

James pulled the Cloak back to show the rest of his very real body. Unfortunately, he hadn't deemed his midnight escapades worthy of donning anything more than his boxer shorts from the waist down.

'A flasher! Begone, foul beast! You sicken me!'

'Sorry 'bout that,' James mumbled, hurriedly wrapping himself in the Cloak once more. 'I was hoping I could get past.'

'Without trousers? I doubt that.'

'Aren't you supposed to help the students of Hogwarts?'

'Only when they're wearing trousers. It says so in the rulebook.'

'Just ask me a riddle, I can get it.'

The eagle made a sceptical sound and turned a beady look upon James.

'Well, then. I'll keep it simple for your thick Gryffindor skull. What am I: I'm tall and thick, and strong as brick, and nobody ever gets through.'

'A wall,' James said, without hesitation.

'Close…'

'A locked door?'

'Correct!'

'Oh. _Oh.'_

'Aha!' the bird laughed cruelly. 'It _is_ sentient. Begone, I tell you. Gryffindors with big heads in the small hours are barred on principle.'

'It's not like that!'

'Oh, if I had a Sickle for every time I'd heard that over the years!'

James crossed his arms and scowled. 'Can you at least tell me, then, if a fifth-year girl has left the common room tonight? Reddish hair, blue-green eyes, very pretty and wears a golden locket?'

'Oho! So it _is_ like that!'

'It _isn't!_'

'All your blood must have left your head and be flowing elsewhere, if you think I'll tell you, young man. Now run along, before I make eleven kinds of racket and bring all manner of trouble down upon your trouser-less self.'

James gave it up as a bad job, leaving the bird with a few choice words and a healthy two-fingered salute before he turned and stomped his way back down the stair.

He found, at the bottom, a gleaming suit of armour guarding a s small niche covered by heraldic flags and tapestries of battle. Instead of traipsing all the way back to the Gryffindor dormitory to enjoy another night of restless sleep, James chanced a glance up and down the corridor, and then ducked in behind the knight, finding the space larger than anticipated. He shuffled the tapestries around so nobody would see him without peering intently, and bundled the Cloak around himself to ensure his privacy. He had a perfect view back up the stairwell – the only way in or out from the Ravenclaw common room. From here, the passage branched off further down the castle, or across to the Gryffindor Tower. There was even a poorly-known back-passage concealed in a broom closet that led to the West Wing. But all traffic had to go through James. He figured it was the perfect spot to stop and wait and watch.

And so, he did.

But he saw nothing that first night. The second night, too he drew a blank. By the third night, he'd smuggled in a pile of bacon and half a loaf of bread, so at least he didn't go hungry. On the fourth night, much to his surprise, when he arrived at his little nook he found a plump feather pillow waiting for him. Fearing that somebody was onto him, he hid in the broom closet and spent the whole night peering out at his old hide. On the fifth night, he found a neat little note, signed by the house-elves, apologising for disturbing his peace, and offering to bring him hot chocolates, should he ever require.

Nearly a week had gone by, and James was beginning to grow impatient. The Christmas holidays were approaching, and he would be heading home for a full two weeks. This was not to mention the hit that his studies had been taking due to his being awake through most of the night. The days were sliding by in a grainy-eyed haze of nodding off in lessons, forgetting to take notes, flunking tests and not even handing in a Transfiguration essay that cost him twenty points to Gryffindor.

He knew that he had to change something, and he already had a plan as to what it was, he just wasn't sure if it was a change for the better, or for worse.

'I was wondering when you'd get around to asking me,' Holly Brooks was leaning up against a particularly ugly gargoyle on a third-floor landing, chewing gum loudly and looking at James with a very disinterested stare.

'Have you–' James stopped and lowered his voice. 'How did you find out what I was up to? Who told you?'

'Nobody,' Holly said, shaking her hair free of its braid and raking her fingers through it idly. 'But you're a walking zombie at the moment. So, you're either spending your nights sneaking around and up to no good, or fucking your way through the upper years alphabetically. Or perhaps by height. And I know you're not enough of a catch to be doing the latter, so….'

'Do we really need to fight, Holly?'

'Don't sulk, James. It's pathetic.'

James sighed, taking a step back and running a hand through his hair. He was quickly becoming convinced he had made a mistake.

'It's about Rain,' he finally said.

'Of course it is.'

'You said you wanted to do this together. That you'd help me. And I… I need your help. I've been staking out the Ravenclaw Tower, trying to see if Rain is walking around at nights. But I can't keep doing it alone. Staying awake all night is killing me. I was wondering if we could do it together. In shifts.'

'So one of us snoozes while the other sits by and keeps watch? I suppose you want me to pat you back to sleep when you have nightmares, too?'

'How did you–' James bit off the rest of that sentence, but not before Holly's grey eyes had flashed with knowing.

'I should have known that this was all just some elaborate scheme to get to sleep with me, James.'

James felt like throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. She seemed to be enjoying this. This incensing, aggravating behaviour. As if her sole purpose was to get under his skin, to try and get a rise out of him. He took a long, deep breath and employed a calming exercise he'd learned from Professor Longbottom in his Occlumency lessons, before responding.

'Are you in, or not, Holly?'

She pouted her lips dramatically. 'You're no fun when you control your temper. Sure. Give me a time and a place.'

And that was how, that very night, James Potter found himself tucked into his alcove once more. This time, however, Holly Brooks was wedged in alongside him. And seemed none too happy about the whole affair.

'Move _over,_ Potter.'

'I can't, _Brooks._ There's a wall there.'

'Could you have picked a smaller spot?'

'It was this or the broom closet.'

'Oho, you are _not _getting me alone in a broom closet.'

'Well put a sock in it and sleep, then. It's my first watch.'

'I _would, _but you keep wriggling. And you breathe too loud.'

'Would you rather I suffocate?'

'… honestly?'

'Don't answer that.'

Finally, silence descended. For a blissful few moments.

'James Potter I swear to God, if you stroke my thigh _one more time–'_

'I didn't touch you! Are you sure you weren't just drifting off into a fantasy?'

'A nightmare, maybe…'

After that, mercifully, Holly _did_ finally drift off, and James was left to an entirely uneventful few hours of watching a blank stretch of corridor. A part of him was hoping Holly would snore, just so he'd have something to complain to her about, but he was out of luck. She slept like an angel.

Their second night together was even less eventful than the first. Aside from what was fast becoming their customary bickering, the only conversation they shared was when James foolishly offered Holly to share the warmth of the Invisibility Cloak, upon noticing that she'd been shivering in the chilly night air.

'So that's all it takes then?' she asked venomously. 'Two nights, and you're already trying to turn this into some sort of love-in?'

'I just thought it might help you stop shivering. With a heart as cold as yours, you'd need all the warmth you can get.'

Holly's eyes flashed dangerously. 'Sod off, James. Leave me and my cold heart in peace.'

James felt as if he'd struck a nerve, and so, a quarter hour later, when Holly had drifted soundly off to sleep, he wriggled about and lay the Cloak over her bare legs while she dozed. She didn't notice in the slightest.

It was on the third night that, finally, James saw some action. And the way that it all came at once, he ended up, by the end of the night, thoroughly convinced that there _was_ such a thing as _too much _excitement.

It was a little after two o'clock. Holly had just woken James up for his turn to keep a lookout. She'd done so with a sharp jab in the ribs that was almost certain to bruise. James leaned forward to get the best view out of their hidden, shadowy niche. Not even a hint of movement up or down the corridor. He didn't even bother asking Holly if she'd seen anything.

James stretched his legs beneath the Cloak, and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms. His eyelids felt leaden and dull. The world around him was stubbornly refusing to come into focus. He barely stifled a massive yawn.

'Gross,' Holly frowned. 'Talk about morning breath.'

Instead of replying, James ignored her and focused on rubbing some warmth into his fingers. He'd had to don an extra pair of socks to combat the chill already, and gloves weren't far off.

'This sucks,' he finally said to the tapestry hanging down before him.

Instead of jabbing him with another sarcastic barb, though, Holly made an uncertain little sound in her throat, and eventually spoke, hesitantly at first.

'I… might not have been entirely honest with you, James.'

'About what? The list is pretty long.'

'Oh, no. You don't get to throw stones when it comes to honesty.'

James fell silent. This was another old wound he dared not open up. For all the more playful banter that bubbled on the surface, he knew deep down that there was a very real, seething hatred towards him that he hadn't the faintest idea how to cure. The last thing they needed was to bring it to the fore.

'There's another way out of Ravenclaw Tower,' Holly eventually said. 'A secret one.'

'Nonsense. I know them all.'

'You _think_ you know them all. You _think_ you know a lot of things, Potter, and every time, you're sadly mistaken.'

'Where is it then? The broom closet fake wall only goes downwards, you can't get to the common room from there.'

'It comes out one landing below us. The one with the statue of the rampant Unicorn. It's a duct of some kind, a hollow in the wall used to channel warm air from the fireplaces up throughout the castle. At least, that's what it seems to be. Sometimes it's so hot that you can't touch the stones, but most nights at this time it's fine to travel. The exit is hidden behind a portrait half-way up the wall, of three hunting knights on horseback. You push it open and slide down onto the unicorn's back.'

James, rather put-out that he had been kept in the dark, and that Holly knew more secret passages in _his_ part of the castle, crossed his arms angrily and set about sulking.

'And just when were you going to tell me about this, then?' he asked angrily.

'I don't know,' Holly mumbled. 'I don't think Rain would know about it. I don't think anyone but me knows, but… I guess you can't be sure.'

James thought back to the way Rain had been creeping around and sneaking up on him lately, as if appearing from nowhere.

'How many of these ducts are there?'

'I've already told you about this one. Sod off if you think I'm revealing them _all_ to you.'

'This isn't a time to fight, Holly. Rain has been slinking about all over the place lately, she's always sneaking up on me, catching me unawares. She's as stealthy as… well, as you are. She just appears about the castle without warning. How many of these ducts are there, Holly?'

'That bitch,' was all Holly said.

It was enough of an answer for James. He pushed himself to his feet.

'I'm going down to check on it. You wait here and watch this passage.'

'But it's my turn to sleep–'

'Sod that, this is _your_ cock-up. Deal with it.'

For once, Holly didn't argue.

Forgoing the Cloak in his huffy mood, James stamped his way out of their hidey-hole and off down the corridor. Through the great, arched windows ahead of him, the silvery disc of a full moon lit his path with an ample argent glow. His multi-socked feet padded silently along the rug that bisected the corridor, and ghosted soundlessly across the tiles of the stairwell landing. He slipped down the stairs, keeping an eye on the flight below him, so that he wouldn't run into any prowling professors unawares. The coast was clear.

The landing below was similarly deserted. A thick pile carpet that had once been luxuriant was now threadbare and folded up at the corners. Narrow windows let in far less of the full moon's light, though still enough to see by. James could make out the great caricature of the rampant unicorn, rearing angrily and brandishing its horn like a weapon. As he approached it, he noticed a slight polishing of the metal outer layer, around the middle of its back and there, behind one of its ears. The obvious hand-hold from anybody climbing down from…

He saw it, the portrait in question. He clambered up onto the unicorn's back, balancing cautiously on the slippery metal in his woollen socks. Sure enough, the portrait came away from the wall with a gentle prying, and he felt a gust of hot air assail him. Holly hadn't been lying.

James drew his wand. _'Lumos!'_ he muttered, casting a beam of light down into the space, just big enough for him to crawl. It went a good thirty feet before a sharp right-hand bend took any further tunnels out of sight.

'Bloody impressive,' he whispered.

'No, Potter. What's bloody impressive is how beautifully we've found you, with your trousers down, ripe and ready for a hiding.'

The deep voice was a familiar one. Four figures appeared at the far side of the landing, stepping out of the shadows and into the moonlight. But James didn't need to see their monochromatic features to know just who they were.

The Hufflepuff Council.

Avery Hitchens, Jordan Minkenberry, Haley Hart, and a fourth, whom James didn't know, but was even burlier than Hitchens. They all had their wands drawn, and the moonlight cast nightmare shadows across their evilly grinning faces.

'Well, shit,' James aptly summarised.

'You betcha, Potter,' Hitchens leered.

'Oh, this is going to feel so _good,'_ giggled Haley Hart.

James was pretty sure that she didn't mean good for all of them. His mind flitted through several options, discarding each one as futile almost instantly. He was, as Hitchens had described it, caught with his trousers down. He briefly wondered on how they could have found him, and almost instantly concluded that it had been Holly. Her words from a few weeks past echoed in his head: "I'd sell you out in a heartbeat." The timing was too perfect. The betrayal stung more than James would have expected.

'Now, let's not get too hasty,' James urged, holding his right hand out defensively. His left, he sent creeping slowly downwards towards the waistband of his trousers… 'We wouldn't want anybody to do anything- _Expelliarmus!'_

James had whipped his wand out in a flash, aimed a spell at Avery Hitchens and leaped backwards off of the unicorn all in one fluid move. He didn't hang around to see if his spell made contact, instead ducking for cover as a series of ear-splitting _clangs_ resounded throughout the landing from a barrage of Hexes hitting the unicorn's flank.

He ducked his head out beneath the tail–

And quickly retracted it, as a searing jet of red light arced past, singeing a few unlucky hairs atop his head.

'_Periculum!'_ he fired blindly. A satisfying round of cries sounded as the sparks cracked and popped all through the hall, disorienting the attackers. James risked a peek once more. '_Langlock!' _he cried, and Haley Hart gave a satisfying gurgle, dropping her wand and clutching both hands to her throat.

'_Bombarda!'_ roared Hitchens, and James yelled as a leg of the unicorn exploded before him, sending twisted, warped metal careening off down the corridor behind.

He barely had time to raise a shield before he heard the cry of '_Depulso!'_ and the damaged unicorn tore free from its pedestal, nearly flattening James as it was blasted back up the hall.

The blast had thrown James backwards. His leg was pinned beneath the mangled body of the unicorn. He couldn't move. He strained against it, but succeeded only in twisting his knee painfully beneath the bulk.

'_Protego!'_ he cried. '_Reducto! Tarantallegra!'_

He got lucky on the last. The big burly one was none too quick, and James' desperate spell clipped him on the shoulder, sending his legs into a wobbling, dancing frenzy, and keeping him occupied long enough for James to finish him off with a _Stupefy_ from his pinned position.

Hitchens and Minkenberry were the only two left standing. Haley Hart was on hands and knees behind them, coughing spasmodically and clutching her throat.

'You think you're hot shit, Potter?' Hitchens growled. 'Think you can take us all down? I think you're trapped like a rabbit in a fence, and the big, bad wolf is about to eat you up.'

'This won't end here,' James growled, trying to keep his voice as menacing as possible. His wand hand quavered as he darted it back and forth between the two boys, who were both advancing painfully slowly.

'You're right, Potter. It won't. We'll hound you for the rest of your days. We'll be your own, personal nightmare. You'll wake up at night screaming because of us. You'll remember us forever, and how we made your life hell. But that is still to come. As for right now, we're about to have a little fun. _Stupef–'_

Everything went black.

But no, James' other senses remained. He could still feel the pain of the unicorn crushing his knee. Could still taste the steely blood in his mouth. And he could still hear the curses Avery Hitchens and Jordan Minkenberry were suddenly uttering as they, too, fumbled around in the darkness.

'What the _hell,'_ Jordan.

'I'm blind, Avery!'

'No, you idiot. Cast a spell.'

'_Reducto!'_

'There! Was that a shadow?'

'Where?'

'Over there! Something move–'

_Thud._

'Avery? What happ–'

_Thud._

Silence. Only the ragged sound of James' breathing, and the thundering of his blood rushing in his ears. Haley Hart gave a cough, a sudden squeal, and then nothing.

Footsteps across the flagstones. Muffled, somehow, as if the darkness also muted their sound.

'_Wingardium Leviosa.'_

James felt the weight vanish from across his leg. There was a grating sound as the unicorn was lifted, and deposited somewhere off to his left. The way sound echoed in the smothering darkness, it could have been three feet off or thirty.

James pushed himself to his feet, favouring his aching knee. He had recognised that voice. 'Holly?'

'Who else would it be, you dolt?'

'I can't see you.'

'I'm wearing the Cloak you stupidly left behind. It smells like week-old socks under here.'

'I can't see _anything.'_

'Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. Follow my voice. And quickly, your ruckus is bound to have alerted every bloody prefect and professor in the castle. Don't trip over the bodies.'

By the time they left the lingering cloud of pitch darkness behind, James was utterly convinced that Holly had led him on a path specifically so that he _would_ trip over the bodies, as he somehow stumbled over five squishy shapes lying motionless on the floor before his vision had returned.

They headed down a flight of stairs, across a small corridor and into a first-years' Transfiguration classroom before Holly stopped urging him onwards, and shed the Cloak.

'A few pesky Hufflepuffs a bit much for you, Potter?' she leapt up to perch atop the professor's table, crossing her legs and popping a strand of hair into her mouth.

'Not fair. They had the jump on me. And I'd already taken two down. I didn't expect you–'

James clicked his jaws shut, realising only too late what he'd said.

The strand of hair fell from between Holly's teeth, to dangle across her chest, swinging like a pendulum. One that was counting down the final few moments of James' existence.

'You _what,_ Potter?'

'Nothing.'

'You thought _I_ arranged that?'

'You _did_ say you'd sell me out in a heartbeat.'

Holly slipped off her table and marched over to him, jabbing a finger into his chest. '_First of all,_ I could take you without breaking a sweat. And _secondly,_ do you seriously think that _that_ would be the way I'd do it? A bunch of Hufflepuff goons in a shady hallway?'

'I just thought–'

'No you didn't! That's the thing, James. You don't think. You _never_ think. You can't think past the tip of your wand or the head of your… never mind. You're an arse, James Potter. A complete, utter, _total_ arse, and the only thing you're good at is hurting people!'

There was real anger on her face. And real tears in the corners of her eyes. James raised a hand to grab the finger that had been jabbing him softly

'Holly, I–'

_Whack._

She punched him in the stomach. _Hard._

'That's for thinking I betrayed you.'

'Bloody- ack – bloody hell, Holly.'

_Thump._

She stamped on James' toes, sending searing pain lancing up his already damaged left leg.

'And _that_ is for not even having the _decency_ to say thank you!'

'I was getting around to it!'

Holly swiped the Cloak back off the professor's table and stalked past him. There was a moment of panic where James thought she was going to make off with it, before she spun on a heel to face him once more.

'Well, are you coming? While you were off tumbling with the Hufflepuffs, I was doing the _real_ work.'

'What- what do you mean?'

'I saw Rain, you pillock. She left Ravenclaw Tower. I'd still be tailing her right now, if you weren't such a colossal arse.'

James looked up, and then smiled. 'But you came to help me instead. You _do_ care!'

One more word out of you, Potter, and I swear, they'll find what's left of you in a wastepaper basket with your head jammed so far up your arse they'll never pull it out.'

None too eager to try Holly's clearly thin patience, James shut up and hurried along, grabbing the proffered Cloak and throwing it over the both of them.

'Let's be quick,' Holly hissed. 'The sooner I'm out from under this hateful thing, the better.'

James, sagely, remained silent.

They set out hurriedly from the room and immediately started canvassing the castle. But the enormity of their task soon became apparent. They had no idea where Rain had gone, other than "down". They went room-by-room, shoving open doors, peering into closets, and lifting up the tapestries over every secret passage they knew. But between dodging the suddenly-prevalent prefect patrols, and hiding from Professors stalking angrily up and down the corridors, they barely got halfway to the basement before the sun's first rays pierced the horizon and they were forced to give it up as a bad job.

James and Holly shared a hoarse, awkward farewell on a third-floor landing, and parted ways. James kept the Cloak over himself all the way back up to the Gryffindor common room. It bore the lingering scent of lavender and mint, which certainly hadn't come from James. Perhaps Holly had a point, after all. But then, how exactly did one go about washing an Invisibility Cloak?

A question for another day, James decided, as he slumped into bed, disappointed, but buoyed by the fact that the night, at least, had seen _some_ action, in their pursuit of Rain's clandestine activities.

It was only two days later, on their third-to-last day of term before the Christmas Holidays, that Renshaw called the entire school together in the Great Hall.

She stood before them all, looking grave and sombre in her all black outfit. Her dark-painted lips were compressed into a thin line. Bruised stains beneath her eyes spoke of a lack of sleep. Both hands clutched tightly to the lectern, and she surveyed the school fiercely.

'I have gathered you all to announce,' she began in a flat, steady voice. 'That the entire East Wing of the second floor is henceforth off limits, due to sudden and unforeseen damages. And I expect anybody who doesn't want to go the same way as the Sorting Hat to stay well clear. It appears that something is seeking to harm Hogwarts castle, and perhaps those who reside within it. It seems that we are under attack.'


	19. Interlude

_Midweek update to help kill some time during that lockdown._

_J_

* * *

Grumweldius Arctavius Plank stroked his moustache one time. He'd just recently grown it in order to match his new pinstriped bowler hat and robe-suit he had been given for work at the Ministry. Upon seeing him, all decked out and fully moustachioed, his wife had commented that he looked "very no-nonsense". Plank had told her to leave the dirty talk for the bedroom, but the results were pleasing, nonetheless.

He stroked it one more time, and checked his pocket watch. He was waiting, of course – and rather patiently, moustache-stroking aside – for precisely three p.m. And although it was only two-fifty-nine, he could hear the clamour of voices through the door he waited next to. He could hear the scoundrels preparing to start the meeting, despite the inter-departmental memo _precisely_ stating that it should start at three p.m. sharp.

A faint _ bee-bee-beep_ suddenly sounded from Plank's pocket. He tapped it once with his wand, smiled, stroked his moustache once more for luck, and pushed open the door to the smallest meeting room in the Western Sub-Wing on the Second Mezzanine Level of the Sub-Department for Emergency Meetings and Official Get-Togethers.

And there was much official getting-together being done behind those doors. A little _too_ much, if Plank was quite honest. The amphitheatre-like seating was pack to bursting, all five levels. He internally questioned whether the use of the _second-_smallest meeting room in the Western Sub-Wing et cetera, might not have been the better choice.

He squeezed on to the edge of the lowermost row, avoiding the worst of the sparks that flew, the stray bowler had thrown like a frisbee across the room, the cursing, the shoving, and the small witch who was tossed bodily off the highest row to land somewhere down the line from where Plank sat.

All in all, a rather ordinary Ministry meeting, so far.

'Oh, it's you.'

The dull, nasally voice coming from next to where Plank had sat belonged to a short man with long, unkempt hair and large hands. He was oddly familiar.

'Baggins, wasn't it?' Plank ventured.

'Boggins, sir. Name's still Boggins.'

'Course it is. Why would you change it?'

'Haven't a clue, sir.'

'Good. Don't change it. I've a hard enough time recalling you as it is.'

'Very good, sir.'

Plank was forced to shuffle along even further as a skittish-looking witch with flyaway blonde hair, flighty eyes and a very long shawl shuffled in. She seemed oddly familiar.

'You're late,' Plank observed. It was now three-oh-four.

'No, I'm Verily,' she replied, matter-of-factly. 'Esoterics Engineer– ahem, _ex-_Esoterics Engineer.'

'I'm Plank,' replied Plank. 'I build things.'

On his other side, Boggins scoffed.

'Hmm. Good name for building things,' Verily observed.

'Well, I suppose it is.'

Plank had never thought of that before. Really, it was quite amusing. He gave a small chuckle, which stirred the bristles on his moustache in a satisfying manner.

'What's this all about, then?' the witch Verily asked.

_Oh, great, _Plank thought. _A chatty one. _

'I haven't a clue. I just build things. And follow rules.'

'Good way to get you killed, that is. Following rules, I mean. You know, I swore I'd never come back here. Not after they sealed my poor Mittens away down in the bottom of the Department of Mysteries–'

Here, Plank gave a sudden hiccup – so _that_ was where he recalled her from. He was suddenly very glad he'd grown the moustache.

'– but I was told there was to be a big announcement. And they asked for me personally. _And _they sent a most fetching bouquet of hydrangeas.'

Plank just nodded along, suddenly very interested in the thread of his trousers. He pulled his bowler hat down a little lower, just to be sure.

'I've been thinking about what they've got locked away down in the Department of Mysteries, you know. And I think they've gone and–'

But Plank didn't hear what Verily thought they'd gone and done, as the door to the smallest meeting room in the Western Sub-Wing on the Second Mezzanine Level of the Sub-Department for Emergency Meetings and Official Get-Togethers flew open so hard it crashed against the wall.

_Three-oh-nine,_ Plank thought with an internal eye-roll. _But better late than never._

But it was not the meeting's adjudicators that entered, it was a wild-eyed wizard in a lime-green robe that was trailing streamers of purple and black flame. His skin was a sickly black and orange, and glowing as if from some internal light. His piercing wail cut through even the commotion of the meeting room, and drew a silence down upon all of those gathered.

'It's _coming!'_ he cried, tearing at his face, leaving bloody tracks down his cheeks from where his nails dug into flesh. He suddenly collapsed onto the floor in the centre of the room and began to writhe as if in agony. 'The End is coming! It's picking us apart, thread by thread. Unravelling. Unmaking. Consuming everything before it! Flee! There is no longer safety, only fear. There is no longer peace, only war. There is no longer magic, only– _eerck!_'

A trio of Steelhearts burst through the door behind the deranged wizard, and lifted him bodily from the ground. He screamed and yelled and hammered them with his fists, but they weathered the beating as if he were nothing. His screams continued, growing in pitch, as they dragged him from the room. Then, once he was out the door there was a flash of blue light, and then sudden, deafening silence

Beside him, Verily had clapped a hand to her mouth.

'That was a Floo Fixator,' she whispered, as if Plank needed informing. 'They maintain the Floo networks, keep them running reliably.'

'Indeed,' nodded Plank drily. 'And that's the third such occurrence this week. One begins to wonder what's gotten into them all. Something in the tea, perhaps.'

But Verily was already pushing herself up and glancing towards the door. 'No, Plank. Use your imagination. It's not something in the _tea._ It's something in the _Floo._ Something's gotten in there. Something that's turning Wizards to mush. I bet- I bet it was the same something that nearly stole my Socks from me!"

Plank didn't like to be told to use his imagination. He thought it was frivolous and childish. 'I'm not sure how your socks feature in all this, Miss Verily–'

'Not my socks. My _Socks!_ My darling Kneazle. Something in the Floo tried to steal him from me! It's the same something that got that wizard, I bet. Oh, this is bad. This is worse even than I thought. If it's in the Floo then… then he was right. _Nowhere_ is safe. Do you know where the Floo leads, Plank? Do you know what it is?'

'Well, it leads to fireplaces, one would assume.'

'Argh, _think,_ man. Why am I even telling you this! The Floo isn't some magical tunnel, or portal that sucks you in at one end, and spits you out at the other. It's travel by magic, Plank. By _Magic. _By the Flux itself. It pinches two points of our world together, like you could pinch up a tablecloth, and joins them together for a heartbeat. And in that heartbeat, it disassembles and reassembles the traveller entirely – such is the glorious power of the Flux – to spit us out, good as new, at the other end. But if something is _in_ there. If there's something disrupting that process, then… think. _Use your imagination._ Think on what it means for magic – for _all of us!'_

Plank exhaled heavily, stirring his moustache. He was beginning to enjoy this added side-effect.

'Sounds a little dramatic, to me,' he finally announced.

'Whatever,' Verily huffed, waving a dismissive hand. 'Stay if you want. I'm packing up my hydrangeas and getting out of here!'

But the witch Verily got precisely nowhere, because at that very moment – three-thirteen, to be precise – the door slammed open again, and the instigators of the meeting finally entered.

'Calm yourselves, please,' said the man, in a voice no louder than a murmur. There was instant silence throughout the room.

The man was tall and well-built. He was broad-shouldered, barrel-chested and had a sharp jawline dusted with dark stubble showing only the barest flecks of grey. He paused in the middle of the room, with his hands clasped at his waist, surveying the occupants with a sweeping blue-eyed gaze that left cowed silence wherever it landed.

Behind him, barely brushing the floor and whispering softly along the dark tiles, was a tattered black cape, woven with dozens of raven feathers.

Plank shuddered when the gaze finally turned to him. It was cold and bottomless and entirely unfeeling.

But if the figure in the raven cloak unmanned him, it was his mystery accomplice that chilled Plank to the core.

He could tell that she was feminine only by the shape of her figure, as she was entirely covered from head to toe. Black boots to her knees melded into soft black leggings. A black undershirt was covered by a black jacket reaching all the way down to her black-gloved hands. A black cowl bunched around her neck and a black hood hid any hair she may or may not have had. Plank could even make out a veil hanging down across her face from the depths of the shadows of that hood. The glint of her eyes was the only thing he could make out above it. And though there was a fair distance between she and he, Plank felt as if she were standing directly before him. He could see those eyes – one electric blue, and one moss-green, piercing him, his soul, his being. Surging through him like a tidal wave, leaving only damage and destruction in their wake. He felt emptied and shaken when she finally looked away. Beside him, Verily appeared as if she was about to faint.

'Thank you for your collective patience, we apologize about the delay.' The man spoke with a deep, resounding voice. He was known to Plank. He was known to all of them Adjutant Raven, they called him. When the Minister had abandoned the Ministry and taken his core of chosen staffers with him, Raven – rumoured to be a long time friend-cum-rival – had been left behind. It was further whispered, that Raven had taken that oversight to heart. And had vowed to make the Minister pay.

_At least the man has manners,_ Plank thought. He could respect that. The whole room would respect that, he knew. They were, after all, loyal to Adjutant Raven, now. The Minister, in his flight, had drawn a line in the sand that Raven had burned and frozen into glass. It was no secret that Raven had his eye on the top job. On de-throning the Minister for Magic, and settling the rivalry. And his embracing of the Dregs, as they'd mockingly called themselves – those Ministry workers and officials not deemed of sufficient priority to follow the Minister into hiding – had earned him their collective loyalty, and sparked life into the heart of what nobody dared call their miniature rebellion.

Without any movement or sound, the doors to the meeting room slammed shut. Verily whimpered, and chewed nervously on her lower lip. '_Bad, bad feeling…'_ she was muttering.

Sharply, Adjutant Raven gestured, and something flew from his outstretched hand. Something that hadn't been there a second ago. A newspaper. A copy of the _Prophet,_ if Plank's eyes did not deceive him. There was a round of angry mutters and grumbles from the onlookers. They all knew what the _Prophet_ signified. _Him._ The Minister, and his propaganda machine.

'Today, it has been made official,' announced Raven, surveying the room once more. 'The Minister has decreed that those of us who remain in the abandoned Ministry of Magic are disobeying an official Ministry mandate, trespassing on Ministry property, and are encouraging dissent and treason. We are, as of this morning, officially declared outlaws.'

There was a half-hearted whoop from a few members of the crowd at that, but the bravado was short-lived.

'The Minister has finally – as he has long been threatening to do – cut all of our salaries.'

This time, the anger came in more than just grumbles. There were shouts and raised fists. Someone drew a wand and fired off a salvo of red sparks. Raven raised a hand for silence, but the crowd heeded him not at all. The clamouring grew, until the woman in black stepped forward, placing herself in front of Raven.

It was like a blanket thrown over the wave of sound. It instantly stifled, from the centre out to the edges. The fearsome gaze – half green, half blue – that flashed from beneath the hood silenced all. A few of those in the front row were cowering backwards in their seats, and almost all were casting nervous glances, not at Raven, but at this mysterious woman. Not a single soul in the room was brave enough – or, mused Plank, perhaps stupid enough – to draw their own wand.

'As I was about to say,' Raven continued. 'We have alternative arrangements in place, worry not. The Minister wishes our voices silenced. For he fears what we have to say. He fears the competition we represent. Those of us still loyal to Magical Britain. Those of us who remain here, who continue to work for our great nation. Who have not abandoned her in this time of need to flee to our mansions and stately homes.

'We are, and forever will be, the voice of Magical Britain. And the coming elections will prove that to everybody, once and for all. Outlawry to us means nothing. For the Minister forgets, that his bureaucracy, his red tape, his decrees, mean nothing without the iron fist that holds the quill. And that iron fist is ours. The Steelhearts remain here, with us. Loyal.'

Another cheer. This one much louder. Raven and the mysterious woman let it continue. Grumweldius Arctavius Plank merely surveyed the other occupants of the room. Truth was, he was fairly apathetic about just who bore the title of Minister for Magic. But he could hardly now tell folk that the only reason he'd remained was because he'd been out buying groceries and missed the announcement. So, here he was. Caught up in some kind of rebellion, it seemed. Rather more of a to-do than he was usually used to, but if there was one thing that Plank liked about this man Raven, it was that he followed rules. And Plank loved rules. So he stayed. And besides, he liked the way they brewed their tea now.

'Our plan is a simple one,' Raven continued, once the cheering had died down. 'We will–'

_Bang._

The door to the room flew open. All eyes flickered towards it. But nobody appeared. A low rumble vibrated through the floor. To Plank's left, Boggins leaned forward, placing a hand on the ground. He was suddenly looking very worried.

'Our plan–' Raven continued. But he got no further. A figure barrelled through the door, stumbled into the room a mere handful of steps, and collapsed, into what – alarmingly quickly – became a large puddle of blood.

'What the–' breathed Raven. But he was cut off again.

The figure stirred, and in the movement Plank caught the red-and-silver emblazoned Steelheart emblem on the breast of his black robe. He raised a hand towards Raven, and in a gurgling, rasping voice, he whispered, 'It's coming.'

And then he died, right there on the floor.

The panic that gripped the room surpassed any of the previous commotions tenfold and more. Witches and wizards screamed, clambered over one another, pushed, shoved, and generally behaved like a wild horde of frenzied beasts. Sheltered, somewhat, by being poked right in the farthest corner, Plank was able to look on and wonder just _what_ it was that they were all panicking about, and if anybody at all actually knew.

Then, beside him, Boggins gave a whimper. His hand was still on the ground. Plank could feel it now, too, through his loafers. A rumbling vibration. Like a galloping horse. No, a thousand galloping horses. And it was growing stronger. Louder. Until Plank could hear it even over the calamity in the room. The first few wizards and witches who had made it to the door suddenly cried in dismay. They tried to turn back, but the pressure from the rest of the room was too great, they were forced onwards towards the door, frantically scrabbling and screaming all the way.

Raven had drawn a long, dark wand, and a fell wind was whirling around the feet of the mysterious witch, keeping even the most deranged of the herd back from her position, but both looked hesitant, confused. They clearly didn't know what they were about to face.

But they were acquainted with it presently, when the door and a large part of the wall exploded. Bodies flew along with brick and mortar. Many didn't get up. The milling panickers couldn't backpedal fast enough to get clear of the beast that strode forth from the cloud of dust, and quite frankly, Plank couldn't blame them for their terror. It turned out it had been wholly justified form the onset.

The monster might have been feline, once. Though now it looked more like something imagined up by somebody who had lived an entire life of nightmares. It was twice as tall as Plank at the shoulder. Its skin was mottled, black and blacker. And a dark, pulsating glow seemed to shine forth from within its chest. Scant bristles of what must have once been hair dotted it's back and forelegs, paler now around the feet. Its eyes did not exist – at least as far as Plank could make out. They were only bottomless chasms, from which that lambent, inner glow shone forth – a purplish-black not-light that sucked life from the world around it. It opened its mouth and gave a high-pitched, appalling snarl so dismaying that Plank actually cried out himself.

A few of the brave – or foolish – among their number cast spells upon it. But instead of hitting, or fizzling with a flash, they seemed to be _absorbed_ by that strange, mottled skin. Which almost took on a fluid character beneath the spellfire. As if they were shooting fireworks into an ocean. And the spells did about as much good.

With an almost lazy strike, the creature swatted aside one of the brave ones. Blood fountained, his wand clattered, and the screams from the room redoubled.

A few more brave souls fired off another salvo – this time from a distance – but had equally as little effect.

'They're making it bigger,' Boggins groaned from Plank's left. The poor fellow had gone a ghastly shade of green.

'Sound observation, Boggins,' Plank croaked. He had been right. The spellfire had only served to _grow_ the beast. It truly did seem to be absorbing the barrage.

'Stop it!' Raven growled, facing the woman in black. 'Can't you control this stuff?'

The woman barked a laugh like shattering glass. 'I can use it, Raven. But control it? Not a chance. Nobody can. That's the _point.'_

Even through the furore, Plank winced. That rasping voice was like nails driven into his ears.

'Well do _something!'_ he roared, firing off a barrage of spells from his own wand.

A sudden commotion to Plank's right, and the witch Verily burst forth from their seat, running to the centre of the room. _Towards_ the danger.

'Wait!' she was screaming. 'No, don't fire! Stop it! That's my Kneazle! It's Mittens! He was locked away beneath the building! Oh, Mitten's you've finally broken free! I knew you'd find me! What have the mean men done to you? Come to Mummy!'

Plank had time to share no more than a bemused glance with the even-greener Master Boggins before "Mittens" turned, tilted his head, and then devoured Verily down to about waist-height.

Boggins gave out and finally vomited. Plank watched the trunk-less legs take one final, almost comical step, and then collapse, twitching feebly on the ground. Of the rest of her torso and arms, there was no sign.

It was then that Plank noticed the strangest of things. A sort of silvery-golden glow was forming above what remained of the witch Verily. It bubbled up into a little cloud and began to crystallise into a small ribbon of beautiful golden light. A ribbon which became a small stream, flowing upwards, latching on to "Mittens" above his right foreleg. It seemed to be flowing _from_ what was left of Verily and _into_ Mittens. Now that Plank had noticed it, he saw that there were dozens of such streamers, emanating from other deceased witches and wizards throughout the room. And wherever Mittens walked, he trailed tiny puffs of golden smoke.

'He's taking something from them,' Plank mused aloud. He was feeling rather an odd sensation within him… Was this what it felt like to be curious?

'Oh, _fuck_ that,' Groaned Boggins, wiping his mouth. 'He's going to eat us all!'

Plank was of a mind to agree, as Mittens hadn't much moved, and though his sudden appearance had spontaneously widened the only exit from the meeting room, he was still well and truly parked before it, surveying the room's frightened inhabitants.

With a dismissive wave of her left arm, the mysterious witch in black shoved a dozen onlookers to the floor unceremoniously, clearing a path between herself and the nightmare beast. It instantly turned to face her, crouching down on its haunches, preparing to leap. The witch lifted her head, the fell breeze around her stirred, and she thrust her arms out forwards. From them, snaked blue-black chains, almost identical in colour to Mittens.

They latched hungrily on to his front shoulders, coiling gleefully around his forelegs and midriff, tightening inch by inch. The witch held her pose, arms outstretched, muscles clearly tensed. The light from within Mittens pulsated brighter, more frantically with each incremental tightening of the chains. The witch jerked her arms backwards, pulling tight. Mittens gave off that horrible cry, and Plank threw his hands over his ears.

Mittens bucked and shook his broad head, gnashing his teeth. Light flared in the pits of his eyes. A snarl came from the witch. She turned her head towards a bystander, who suddenly cried out and fell, motionless, to the floor. The golden ribbon of light began to coalesce above her now-lifeless body, flowing upwards, not into Mittens, but into the chains that the witch was wielding.

'By Merlin's sacred texts, she's the _same,'_ whispered Plank. Of all the revelations that day, this may well have been the most terrifying.

It seemed Mittens noted this fact at around the same time Plank did from the distant corner of the amphitheatre seating. He raised his head, pulsed with that strange not-light one final time, and _disappeared,_ causing the chains to fall to the floor in eerie silence.

A silence which was broken by the witch yelling in alarm. Plank noted it, too. A dull, purple-black light was racing _up_ the chains. The exact light that had pulsated from Mittens' core. It was speeding towards the witch. She took a panicked step backwards, shook her hands, ridding herself of the chains, which began to slowly dissolve…

Not fast enough. Mittens' form roared back into existence. Right on top of the witch. He gave a triumphant yowl, and a swipe of his claws. Blood fanned. The witch spun away, clutching her chest. A rich, deep red spilled through the midnight of her robes.

Amongst the stranded witches and wizards once more, Mittens gleefully set about tearing and rending and devouring, all the while growing larger as the strands of gold and silver latched on to him, all over his body. Plank, seeing a gap to the exit, grabbed Boggins by the collar and started hauling. All Boggins was in a state to do was moan and curse, stumbling along and decrying the end of the world as they knew it.

Looking back at the threshold, Plank saw Raven, now alone, standing strong against the beast. He tore up a section of the floor to block a blow. The tiles shattered into a rain of dust, and Raven was driven backwards, cursing. A section of the roof brought down upon its head slowed Mittens for a moment, and Raven used the distraction to roll to his right, ushering more stunned onlookers towards the door, and crouching over the Witch in Black, lifting her still body in his arms.

He bent down to converse with her. She managed to raise one feeble arm as Mittens broke free from the masonry and turned to face them down. More onlookers buffeted Plank and Boggins in their desperation to flee. The room was now almost entirely empty, but Plank was transfixed by the magic and majesty of these two figures, broken and defeated though they were, staring down what appeared to be certain death.

But any resolution to the conflict was lost to Plank, who was knocked clean off of his feet by a rather rotund wizard toddling hurriedly away from the fight. Plank fell on his side. His head hit the ground hard and stars burst behind his eyelids. There was a colossal explosion, and suddenly dust shrouded everything. He felt a hand gripping his collar, dragging him onwards, upwards. Boggins had come to his senses. Plank got up, stumbled, looked backwards one last time, but could make nothing out.

As he followed Boggins down the corridor, another of Mittens' yowls sounded, ear-splitting and terrifying. Plank couldn't tell if it was in triumph or in agony. Another explosion rocked the building.

They reached a designated Apparition point. All around them, Witches and Wizards were _popping_ out of existence. The scrum for the few Floo fireplaces available on this level was fierce. Plank looked on as the green flames roared. A sudden heat buffeted him, cries of pain, and a lick of purple-black flame. The demented Floo Fixator flashed through Plank's mind, and he hurriedly let go of Boggins with a frantic 'Thanks!' and apparated right out of there.

Sudden, sharp pain, as Plank stumbled on to his doorstep at home. Blood was leaking out of his left loafer. He looked down quizzically, wriggling his toes, or what was left of them.

'Huh,' he said aloud and to nobody in particular. 'Well, who needs a pinkie toe anyway.'

Miles away, in the heart of London, the Ministry of Magic was falling.


	20. Promises

_A little more lockdown love to keep you all entertained. _

* * *

The crowd jostled. Faceless bodies shuffled this way and that. There were grunts and curses and apologies, the awkward sideways-shuffle, and a great deal of treading on toes. There was the sound of the whistle of the Hogwarts Express, and the misting of a thousand breaths mingling in the cool air with the steam that belched from the scarlet steam engine and hovering just above head height, making the vaulted platform seemed even more cramped and packed in than it already was.

James had been separated from the rest of his family along with Harry almost as soon as they'd passed through the barrier. A runaway trolley being chased by a portly witch in a purple robe had nearly flattened Lily and Al, and by the time everybody was on their feet once more, there were no fewer than a dozen families between James' position and where he'd last seen his siblings. His father had cursed wizardkind's prolific peacetime breeding habits and forged onwards alone, with James scurrying along in his wake.

They'd eventually managed to step aside and carve out a little pool of calm among the roiling torrents around them adjacent a wall near the rear of the train. And as eleven o'clock approached, last-minute farewell cries joined in to add a layer of tumultuous noise to the madness as well. James didn't see his father so much as move, but he could tell that he'd cast a _Muffliato_ charm around the pair of them to afford some privacy. Not least because a few of the witches and wizards stood nearby started frowning and sticking their fingers in their ears as if that would help clear out the muted buzz the spell had created.

'Stay safe this term, James,' Harry cautioned, laying a hand on James' shoulder. Harry's eyes were tight, his face drawn. There was a hint of grey showing through his beard in the right light, and streaks of it decorated his temples as he ran a hand through his hair in a gesture James himself had perfected over the years. Harry Potter was not as young as he used to be.

'Course, Dad,' James nodded. 'Always.'

'Good thing you're not under Veritaserum, because that's the biggest lie I've heard all week.'

James gave a laugh. 'You know how it is, Dad. I have to look after my friends. I have to keep them safe, too.'

Harry's gaze took on a distant, misty look. He removed his glasses for a moment and cleaned a non-existent speck with his jumper. 'I do, James. Trust me, I do.'

'But I'll try, at least.'

'That's all I ask. I don't like this business of the castle lockdowns you mentioned. You're sure these areas are being damaged or affected in some way?'

'I saw one with my own eyes, Dad. It seemed to be melting.'

'Hmm. Well, then, if what you are describing is some kind of magical virus or cancer that is spreading, it seems to have already breached Hogwarts' defences. The Headmistress will have to act quickly if she is to cut it out.'

'And if it _is_ somehow linked to Rain?'

Harry paused, leaning forwards to look sharply into James' eyes. Hard, weathered green met earnest and worried brown, and neither flinched. 'Take a great care with whom you share that theory, James. For everyone that you tell will react to it differently. Many will try and take advantage of the poor girl, for their gain, or perhaps through some twisted plan to use her to draw out the source of this Unmaking. We still aren't sure if that is what the Ministry was trying to do last year when we rescued her. Every question I ask is met with blank looks and shrugs.'

'And how is it?' James asked, eager to move the subject on. 'Working for the Ministry again?'

Harry gave a bitter smile that didn't reach his eyes. 'Like trying to fall asleep in a nest of vipers. The Minister still doesn't trust Ron nor I, but when the Steelhearts defected and stayed on with that mob of crazies who were holed up in the Ministry, he was suddenly left without an Auror department. At a time where he feels that physical threat might be coming from this mysterious rival of his who doesn't show his face in public.'

'Then why do it?' James asked. Over his shoulder the whistle sounded once more. The second warning prior to departure. Five minutes to go. The crowd was reaching a fever pitch.

The sigh Harry gave spoke volumes. As if he'd asked himself the very same question a dozen times before.

'We don't need the money, but that pre-Hogwarts day-care your mother and Aunt Hermione are running could use some resources. Get the kids out from under our feet at home. So Ron and I charge an exorbitant fee and send it all to the day-care. They've a new building not far from home. Almost a hundred kids now. And it's sanctioned by the Ministry. Half of magical London's kids attending, and growing by the day. Hermione is loving it. So's Ginny, funny enough. So Ron and I will muddle on for a bit longer yet, training the next generation of Aurors from the dregs that are left. The rejects that didn't get selected for the Steelheart induction program. Merlin, but what I wouldn't give for a handful of Zoe Meadows' right now.'

'Don't let Mum hear you say that,' James smirked. 'She'd ask where you were hoping to take grab that handful.'

Harry barked a laugh. This time his eyes actually lit up, and it transformed a weathered, worn-down face into something of rugged beauty.

'On with you, then,' he laughed, cuffing James around the ear playfully. 'Stay out of trouble, and try to pass a few OWLs, would you?'

'No promises,' James grinned, shaking his father's hand. 'On both counts.'

And with that, he was off. He felt the _Muffliato _spell collapse, and he waved his father one final farewell before marching off towards the train about to depart, making liberal use of elbows and shoulders to ensure a clear path.

The relative calm that reigned inside the train was a blessing. Most of the students had found their way to compartments and had seated themselves. There was the usual banter bandied up and down within each carriage, as friends called to friends, and greeted those they hadn't seen all holidays. A few notes fluttered by overhead, shaped as birds or little paper aeroplanes, trading messages between more distant companions. As the train lurched into motion, James raised a hand to steady himself and picked his way along the aisle, through the carriages until he came to one occupied by familiar faces.

He greeted his friends with something like relief, and pulled the door shut tight, blocking out the moise, and revelling in the relative silence of their small compartment. They all exchanged pleasantries and tales of just what they'd been up to on their holidays – Fred to France where he'd given Fleur and Bill's family no end of grief, Tristan had spent the winter up on his farm, tending to a veritable menagerie of baby animals that had all decided to be born just on the brink of one of the coldest wintry seasons he could recall. Cassie and Clip offered the big announcement that they were now _together,_ to which everyone just rolled their eyes and chorused, "About time!" Cat had been undertaking more bizarre jobs throughout magical Britain, including, most recently, bricklaying for platform ten-and-one-fifth, a new platform to open up next to nine-and-three-quarters to cope with the extra demand of increased students that had been seen in recent years. This would explain why she was splattered head-to-toe in a grainy grey mortar, which was beginning to dry rather stiffly on her clothes, leaving her with one arm stuck bent across her chest.

They talked and laughed and generally whiled away the hours as if they shared not a single care in the world. As a drizzling, grey rain set in somewhere around the centre of the country, James and Cassie sat staring out the window together, and talk turned to Rain, and how she might have spent the holiday period.

'Did you hear from her?' James asked, watching idly as his breath crept across the window as a ghostly mist.

Cassie shook her head. A note of worry had crept into her eyes the moment the subject was broached. She was fidgeting in her lap, toying with the hem of her blouse. Clip had tried to take her hand three times already, and she'd slapped him away impatiently in every instance.

'It must have been frightfully dreary,' Cassie whispered. 'Locked in the castle like that all winter. And she doesn't do well when she's alone. Oh, I _knew_ I should have pushed to bring her home. But Headmistress Renshaw simply wouldn't allow it.'

'Is that so?' James asked, curiosity piqued. 'Can she _do_ that?'

'She's the headmistress. I assume she can _do_ whatever she pleases. But she said, as Rain has no guardians, she falls under care of the school, and she cannot allow her off grounds.'

'Hmm,' James eloquently stated. He wondered if perhaps being alone wasn't the least of Rain's problems over the holidays, if Renshaw's suspicions were anything like his own. The desire to see her – and see her safe – redoubled, and he checked his watch, as if that would help them arrive any quicker.

'She's just seemed so… troubled, lately,' Cassie continued, unprompted. 'So distant. She was doing so well, learning so many things. She was almost… you know… _normal._ Or, at least, normal _for her._ But the last few weeks before we left, she was become different… Distant. Colder. Like… almost like _before. _And her sleep was worse. Every night, she'd wake up screaming. Or even worse, she wouldn't wake, and would scream and scream. She would try and tear her necklace off – that locket she always wears – it was as if it burned her. So I'd unlatch it and set it beside her bed. She'd calm down then, but some nights after that she'd disappear again. Sleepwalking is a sign of a troubled mind, James, magical or muggle. We need to do something for her.'

_Now there's something we can agree on._

The only problem was, James didn't know just what he needed to do, yet. He needed to know how deep Rain was in all of this. And to do that, he needed to see for himself. For his own sanity.

'I will look after her, Cassie,' he heard himself saying. 'Don't you worry. I'll get her the help that she needs. To… to end this.'

Cassie looked up and gave James a watery smile. 'You promise?'

And before he could stop himself, James had uttered the binding words. 'I promise.'

The rain had not abated by the time the pulled in at Hogsmeade Station. The clouds squatted low and dull in the sky, weeping a soft, drizzly rain that dampened everything and, before one knew it, saturated to the bone. It clung to hair and clothes and eyelashes, and made the muddy path up to the Thestral-drawn carriages treacherous underfoot. The only one who seemed to be enjoying themselves was Cat, as the moisture loosened the mortar that had dried her almost to statue-stillness throughout the duration of their train journey. Much to the irritation of all of them, she jumped in every puddle she could find between the station and the carriage.

They were all looking forward to the fare that awaited them within the Great Hall. Hot food was almost entirely consuming James' thoughts as he hurriedly made his way up the steps, sheltering as best he could from the persistent rain.

He jostled his way in through the door, joined in the collective sigh of relief as dryness enveloped them, promptly saw a flicker of ash-blonde hair up ahead of him, and peeled off from the group as if shot from a cannon, losing himself hurriedly in a cluster of disproportionately-tall Ravenclaw students who were all discussing whether a Charm could still be called a Charm if the intent of the spell was to specifically cause damaging effects. James was bored already.

He veered away from the lanky weirdos, content that he had avoided a run-in with Odette, but waited a moment on the first step of the Grand Staircase, just to be sure. He scanned the crowd with a squint. The last thing he needed right now was to–

'Hello James!'

'Argh! Bloody Merlin's bloody jocks in a sandwich. Rain! _Stop that!'_

Rain had appeared at his elbow. From _nowhere._ There had been not a soul on the steps just a moment prior, of that he was certain. This was more than simply using Holly's ducts to sneak around the Castle, surely.

'Oh. Sorry, James. I was just… excited to see you.' She folded her hands at her waist, and scuffed the ground with one foot. Her sea-green eyes were wide and shimmering, and she was damn near about to trip over her bottom lip. James instantly felt like the meanest person in the world.

'I'm sorry Rain. You just startled me, that's all.'

'I've been practising–'

'Sneaking about. I know.' Only too well.

'I'm getting very good at it.'

He knew that much, as well.

'It came in handy when I was trying to keep away from Headmistress Renshaw over the holidays.'

'Is that so?' James asked, suddenly very interested.

'Yes, come. I don't feel like eating. I want to go for a walk.'

'But it's raining.'

'I know. Isn't that lovely?'

James gave one final, wistful glance back at the open doors to the Great Hall, the source of a great number of tantalising smells wafting out over the heads of the clamouring students all rushing as if the magical tables would be unable to provide for their ravenous hunger. He sighed. His stomach rumbled, but he followed Rain back against the flow of students in the direction of the castle grounds.

James was taken aback as Rain slipped her hand casually into his own, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. They'd barely gone three paces before James noticed at least a dozen people whispering behind hands and shooting them _very_ pointed gazes.

'Why are they staring?' Rain asked innocently.

'Ah, well, boys and girls don't _usually_ walk around holding hands…' James began, unsure how to finish.

'Oh, _right._ It's a special-friend thing isn't it? Like you were telling me about at the start of the year.'

'Err…'

'Like you and Odette?'

'Well, you see…'

'How is she? She seemed so lovely.'

'Ah, well you see Rain, we're not… not _special-_friends, anymore. Just, erm… just regular friends. I think. Or maybe not even that.'

Rain stopped suddenly, forcing James to do the same by virtue of still holding his hand. The crowds that parted around them now were not even remotely subtle in their gawking.

'That's sad,' Rain said earnestly. She had a distant look in her eyes, as if trying to figure out what it all meant. 'How did that happen?'

'Ahh…' James trailed off, lost for words. This was _not_ the conversation that he'd envisaged having with Rain upon his return. 'I guess we figured out we weren't quite the kindred spirits we once thought we were. We wanted different things.'

'That's very vague.'

'Yes, I suppose it is.'

They walked for a moment in silence. Progress was slow, as they were heading against the flow of students all clamouring to get into the Great Hall for dinner. Outside, James could see slanting droplets of rain periodically illuminated into beads of golden fire by the flickering torches that flanked the entrance to the castle. They paused to wait for a gap in the students, and James looked idly down at their joined hands.

'I could never do this with you, before, did you know?'

Rain lifted up their hands, studying the interlocking fingers with wide eyes. Her nails, painted a deep blue, reflected whispers of flickering torchlight.

'Were we… _special_ friends, before, then?' she suddenly asked.

'No, we were just the ordinary kind. I think. Though some days, I can't really be too sure just what we were.'

'We must have been _some_ kind of friends, if you chose to come and rescue me.'

Her voice had gone very quiet now. As it did whenever she spoke of the ordeal at the Ministry. She pulled her hand away and hugged herself, suddenly looking so small and fragile. A scared fifteen-year-old girl. It was so easy for James to forget that, under it all, that's probably all she was.

'That we were, Rain. We were some kind of friends.'

'And what are we now?'

The question took James off-guard. 'Why, we're friends, Rain. Ordinary friends, sure, but that doesn't make it any less special.'

Rain bit her lower lip, and looked around the hall before speaking. 'I recall you once told me friendship is about doing things for one another. Even though they might not be easy. That it was about looking out for one another. Do you remember, James?'

James nodded slowly.

'And will you do that for me now, James? Do you promise to look out for me, even though it might not be easy? Even though there is sacrifice?'

'I– always, Rain. Of course.'

Rain turned away from him, staring out in to the gathering darkness, her expression a mystery. 'So much confuses me, now, James. I'm trying to create a lifetime's worth of memories in the space of a single year. But, I think… no, I _know_ that as long as you're there beside me, that it will be all right in the end. Don't you agree?'

James didn't answer. He couldn't possibly answer. But that didn't faze Rain in the slightest. She only gave a small smile and took his hand once more, leading him out into the night and the rain, where they walked all the way around the castle grounds twice over. Occasionally, Rain would raise a hand or offer a gesture, and beautiful, shimmering shapes would form from the droplets diving through the air around them. Or she would seem to freeze the fall for a moment, and they would walk on through tiny, crystallised beads of starlight suspended, frozen in time for the space of a few breaths, a momentary reprieve before they became dashed against the cobblestones at their feet.

The moon had risen by the time they returned, and the entire school had filtered out of the Great Hall – the feast was over. And throughout the whole time spent walking in the rain together, neither one had uttered a single word. Who knew what went on behind the iron walls and twisted mazes of Rain's mind? But for James, he was concerned that he'd just made two promises in the space of a day that he would never be able to keep.

And that day was not yet over.

They parted, with James making his way towards the kitchens, in the hope of scrounging something to eat from the elves, while Rain headed up the Grand Staircase towards the Ravenclaw dormitory and bed. James thought he'd leave off starting up the nightly watch again, at least until he'd spoken to Holly.

His footsteps echoed in the empty hallways. The corridor that led to the basement level and the kitchens was always left well lit, though few would be using it at this hour – so recently satisfied by the start-of-term fare.

James estimated that he was about halfway to his destination when he realised that he wasn't alone. He felt his hackles stir, and a faint prickling between his shoulder blades, as if somebody were sizing him up with a knife from behind. He stopped in his tracks, turning slowly on the spot and drifting his right hand closer to where he stowed his wand in the waistband of his jeans.

'We missed you at the feast this evening, Mister Potter.'

Headmistress Renshaw was leaning up against the bare stone wall, not a dozen feet from James' own position. She looked as if she had been lounging there for hours, as if James had strolled right past her without noticing. He suddenly recalled something his father had once mentioned, about Albus Dumbledore being able to cast a Disillusionment Charm so powerful that it worked as well as an Invisibility Cloak. He shuddered. The Headmistress took it to be the chill.

'Yes, there is rather a nip in the air tonight, is there not? Curious, then, that you would choose to spend the evening strolling the castle grounds.'

James felt his heart thumping. His palms tingled. He was suddenly nervous, though he couldn't put his finger on why. He surreptitiously took a step away from the wall and folded his arms, trying to look casual.

'I fancied some fresh air. Spending the whole day cooped up in that train gives me cabin fever.'

The smile Renshaw turned on him slipped icy fingers around his throat.

'Don't lie to me, boy. I can see through you as clear as glass. The two of you were missing. What were you up to?'

James swallowed nervously. He had to force himself not to take a step backwards. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, and his palms suddenly felt slick. He knew there was no need to ask who Renshaw meant by "the two" of them.

'Our holidays. Nothing important.'

'If you're trying to hide something from me…'

A stirring of shadow, and Renshaw suddenly loomed over him. She grabbed him forcibly by the back of the neck and tilted his head to look at her. James felt a queasiness wash over him. And then a distinct feeling of _otherness,_ of an intrusion of his self.

_She's in my head!_

Instinctively, James recoiled, putting in to play all of the lessons and Occlumency defences that Professors Longbottom and Meadows had tried to impart on him. And as suddenly as it had started, the sensation was gone. Leaving not even an echo behind, causing James to wonder if he'd imagined the whole thing.

'Jumpy this evening, aren't we?' Renshaw purred dangerously. She released James and took a step backwards. 'So twitchy and furtive… the longer you leave me without answers, James Potter, the more I start to believe that you are trying to hide something from me. And the more impatient I grow.'

'I told you, I need time–!'

'_Time is not a luxury I possess!'_ Renshaw snapped, slapping the wall with a palm, and sending an echo like the cracking of a whip up and down the corridor. 'My castle is falling apart, Potter. And each day you dally consigns more of it to ruin. I will _not_ sit by idly and watch this thing eat us from the inside out. If you'd been present at the feast tonight, you would have heard the announcement that a pair of Ministry Investigators are arriving next week to assess the damages. Esoterics Engineers, they call themselves. Crackpots, probably, but perhaps they'll uncover something useful. I'm told their report will be on my desk within three weeks of their assessment. Do you know what that means, Potter?'

James swallowed, cautiously shaking his head in the negative.

'It means that you have one month to answer me. To inform me of where you lie. To prove to me Rain's innocence in this, or to affirm her guilt. And if you don't get back to me in that time, then I'll see to it that I take the advice offered by these Engineers. And I'm almost certain that their solution will be of a nature that is much more… absolute.'

James could only nod mutely, not trusting himself to speak.

'I will have your word on it, Potter, for whatever that is worth.'

And for the third time that day, James heard himself speak the binding words, heard his voice, stilted and broken offer results he felt hopelessly inadequate to deliver.

'I promise.'


	21. A Mismatched Stare

_A/N: There's been a bit on at my end, hence the delay in posting. But we are back on track now. _

* * *

One of the first things that James could recall learning about Hogwarts was the horror of O.W.L year. He was forewarned about how much of a shock it would be, and how much more difficult it was compared to anything that they had faced in a classroom prior. His parents had warned him about it from the day he had been old enough to understand what Hogwarts was. His Uncle Ron had warned him about it almost weekly, and offered a dozen or more suggestions to weasel out of exams – though chief among them seemed to be finding a Dark Lord to fight. His Aunt Hermione had warned him about them and bombarded him with endless reading lists, book suggestions, study notes, and useful spells to have under his belt – almost none of which he had actually bothered to learn.

The O.W.L year was said to be one of the most miserable in any Hogwarts student's life. And this was not a surprise to anybody. So James had nobody to blame but himself when he returned back to school for the new year and had his socks knocked clean off with almost nuclear force by the workload that was dumped on the wary fifth years.

'It's the most important year of your school life,' Professor Plye parroted as he burdened them with a gruelling three-foot-long essay on the topic of animated to non-animated Transfigurations.

'You'll thank me later,' said Professor Longbottom to the long-faced students as he set them the unenviable task of de-seeding an entire hedgerow of Belch-gas Buxus, which was every bit as smelly as it sounded.

'If you fail now, you may as well pack up and prepare for a life casting cleaning charms on toilets,' Professor Ellfrick warned them coldly, as the Gryffindor fifth-years cut a mountain of elfgrass stems to toss into steaming, hissing cauldrons on the exact stroke of the minute, every minute, for over three hours.

But it was Professor Meadows that had them working hardest of all, as her lessons took not only a mental toll, but a physical one. She had them out in the grounds every other day, practising Jinxes and Counter-Jinxes, lining students up to face off with one another to perfect the art of the draw, or had them line up one-by one and practise their aim by trying to hit a solitary tree at twenty paces, then thirty, then fifty. And it wasn't even a very big tree.

She kept a running tally, in the form of a board of floating letters that hovered around behind her through the duration of the class, which she had dubbed her 'Wall of Shame', and on it went the names of any student who failed to live up to her ever-increasing expectations throughout the course of the lesson. Addition to the Wall of Shame was worth negative five house points. A second black mark earned the unlucky student a lap around the castle at a brisk jog – 'a fighter must be fit, not fat, Potter! I could hit that gut of yours in my sleep, get moving!' – and the dreaded Third Mark was sufficient to volunteer the hapless youngster as target practice for his or her peers for the remainder of the lesson. A punishment that left the sting of embarrassment lingering long after the last ache of the Hexes and Jinxes had faded. During the first week alone, James racked up two Third Marks in the space of three lessons.

It should also be noted that during much of this time period, a persistent, drenching drizzle had set in over the valley in which Hogwarts Castle sat, and so on top of being laughed at, shot at, and the butt of almost every single one of Professor Meadows' jokes, James was almost always wet, and definitely always cold.

'You still fancy Professor Meadows after all of this then?' Fred asked that Friday evening as the Gryffindor fifth-years lay scattered about the common room, draped over furniture or even spread-eagled on the floor like corpses.

Fred was wrapped up in no fewer than a dozen blankets of varying thickness, and nursing a glass of something foul-smelling and steaming that Madam Petheridge had given him as Zoe Meadows' class had already run her out of Pepper-Up Potion. Cat was laying deathly still on the rug by the fireplace. So close to the crackling flames, in fact, that there was a very real concern that she may singe off her hair _again._ James, for his part, had constructed a miniature fort made of hot water bottles, courtesy of the House-Elves. Though even this, piled almost as high as the couch upon which he was laying, was not enough to shake the chill from another Three-Mark day in Zoe Meadows' class.

'Sod off,' James growled half-heartedly.

'She's got it in for you, mate. Nobody else in the class has racked up even half as many Marks as you have.'

'Ugh, tell me about it. As if I need reminding.'

'You know, when I was a little girl,' Cat spoke up. She was currently laying face-down in the plush rug, so her voice came out rather muffled. 'A little boy named Sigi used to tease me endlessly. He was ever so mean. One day I confronted him about it, and he confessed he was secretly in love with me. Then pulled my hair and ran away.'

'Oh, put a sock in it, you two,' James growled, hurling a cushion at Cat. It landed on her back with a _whump,_ and remained there. Cat didn't even bother to push it aside. 'Where's Clip gone? I need him to rearrange my hot water bottle castle again, the south wall is collapsing.'

'_Studying_ with Cassie,' Fred said, making a face to show just how much "studying" he thought was actually going on.

'All this extra study time,' James said. 'And he's still struggling with his spells. If Zoe didn't feel sorry for him, he'd have at least as many Marks as me.'

'Oh, so it's _Zoe,_ now?' Cat teased from the rug.

'Shut up.'

'Clip would be alright if Cassie had him practicing with the right wand,' Fred said with a grin. 'The one she's using only shoots one spell, doesn't it?'

This, at last, forced Cat to move, as she rolled onto her back and flung a wet sock at Fred, which she'd been drying by the fireside. It hit him square in the face.

The sudden burst of effort left Cat groaning in misery. James laughed for a moment at Fred's expense, and then started groaning at even _that_ level of exertion. Fred just groaned, as muddy water trickled down his chin, and such was his exhaustion that he didn't even bother to wipe it off.

O. were hell.

And come Saturday morning, James thought he'd get a little bit of his own back, and vent his frustrations on the one he saw as the ringleader of the circus of misery that the fifth-years had suddenly found themselves in.

Zoe – _Professor Meadows – _he chided himself, had scheduled another meeting to work on his Occlumency, again under the guise of remedial studies, but James was of a mind to spend a good fifteen minutes _at least_ letting her know just how her lesson planning was making him feel. He worked on just what he was going to say as he stormed downwards through the castle towards the classroom they would be using. He worked on the trick of shouting his displeasure both mentally and verbally, just in case she was using what skill she had in Legilimency to try and find him. He hoped it would give her a headache.

He arrived to find the classroom set up as if for a regular lesson. Desks were aligned in neat rows, spaced precisely apart so that it would be as obvious as a Niffler in your knickers if any of the students tried to lean over and whisper or pass notes. James knew that Professor Meadows liked to arrange the desks like this before every lesson, as it made it far more dramatic when she swept them to the side with a great, dramatic wave of her wand, in preparation for a practical demonstration.

And, speak of the she-devil, there she sat, perched up on the teacher's desk as if it were a throne. As she was leaning forwards and fiddling with something in the joint of her wooden leg, she hadn't yet noticed James' arrival. Grinning, James grabbed hold of the door, which currently stood ajar, and shoved it hard, causing it to slam against the wall and send a calamitous _crash_ echoing around the room.

Put out only slightly by the fact that Professor Meadows didn't even flinch, James continued his dramatic entrance with an angry stride into the room. He enjoyed the way his footsteps echoed around the mostly-empty space, all the way up to the bare, arched ceiling, decorated with its faded plasterwork and chipped stone.

'You've been putting us through _hell,'_ he growled, banging his fist on a nearby desk for impact as he spoke. This, at last, got the desired effect, as Professor Meadows slowly looked up and found his gaze, favouring him with an almost bored stare. 'Where do you get off, having us running around like idiots in the rain and the snow? Parading us through the castle like a bloody mud-soaked circus! Half the class is sick, the other half have spent more time in the Hospital Wing this week than out of it. Whatever spell Bixby hit Cat with yesterday has had her hiccupping pink bubbles all bloody morning, Madam Petheridge has stopped even handing out Pepper-up Potions – on your orders, no doubt! And those of us who _can_ still stand are too bloody knackered to even think about studying, so we're bound to fail everything else, and it's all because of _you!_'

Here, James paused to take a breath, but he was not yet done.

'And what the _hell_ kind of sick game have you been playing at my expense? Three Marks _every single lesson._ Making me into a target practice dummy like it's some sort of joke. Half of the class can't even cast the spells I can, and you _still_ find some twisted, fucked-up way to punish me for it, as if you're holding me to an entirely different standard which isn't just unfair, it's cruel! But I've had enough. I'm sick to death of being treated like a laughingstock, so if you don't apologise and promise to stop it now, I'm leaving the class. I don't need you to get a passing grade, I'll manage on my own.'

Finally finished, James felt as if he'd just run a race. His chest was heaving, his hands were shaking, and his legs were jelly. He grabbed onto a nearby table to steady himself. His march to the front of the classroom had ended, and he was now face to face with Professor Meadows, glaring up at her as she only stared back impassively.

And then her mouth… twitched.

And she leaped forward off the table and _hugged_ him.

'Oh, James,' she said. Her voiced was hitched and broken. Was she… laughing? 'Oh, James you absolute drama queen. You complete, utter princess. Neville was adamant you'd last at least two weeks. I told him no more than three days. We even had a couple of Galleons as a bet! So utterly, beautifully, brilliantly predictable. You are an endless font of entertainment, and I do not know where I'd be without you. Please, don't ever change.'

She stepped back and held James by the shoulders, appraising him as if she was a mother and he the son, ready to depart on his first day of school. There were even tears in her eyes, but these were clearly not tears of pride, but of mirth. And the fact that it was at James' expense did nothing but rankle him even further.

'What are you talking about?' he asked huffily, shrugging out of her grip and taking a step back. He thought to cross his arms in anger, but discarded the idea as too sulky, instead settling for a good solid frown, like Cassie would give him when she was at her most disapproving.

'I'm sorry, shall we do this your way, then?' Professor Meadows adjusted her dress and adopted a severe frown. She pursed her bright pink lips and placed hands on hips. 'Shall I yell and shout and throw a tantrum as well? Shall I puff out my chest and wave my arms? I'll tell you what, I'll even mess up my hair so _it_ looks angry too. There, how's that?'

'Are you… _ill?'_

'Hah! Not a chance. I'm simply amused at how little time it took to break you. Tell me, Potter, who in the class could manage to hit the falling oak leaf with a Cutting Hex on Wednesday?'

James stood a little straighter. 'Only me. I hit _three_.'

'And who was able to summon a stone, jettison it half-way across the Black Lake, and explode it so that it sunk the little dinghy anchored out there?'

'Just me, again.'

'And in the joint class with Slytherin, who was able to trap half of the damned class with the Sinkhole Spell we were practising?'

'Me.'

'_And…'_

'Brooks. Me and Brooks.'

'_Holly,_ James. Her name is Holly. Your collective ability to sulk in one another's directions never ceases to amaze me. Irrespective of your hurt feelings, do you see what I'm getting at here?'

'You're trying to punish me for being better?'

_Thwack!_

'You bloody–' _Smack!_ 'Thick-skulled–' _Crack!_ 'Pillock!'

Professor Meadows interspersed the vebral abuse with vigorous clips around James' ear.

'When you get your Third Mark and end up as cannon fodder, what are the rules?'

'No bloody wand. No spells. No _nothing,_ all I can do is try and dodge.'

'And how successful is that for you.'

James gave a moody shrug. 'Fifty-fifty.'

'True enough. And every spell that misses, you have advice to offer the attacker. Footwork, enunciation, wand movements, posture. And what's more, they _listen_ to you, as well. Do you see where I'm going with this?'

'I suppose…'

'Bullshit, I don't need Legilimency to see through that dopey look in your eyes. Now, don't let this swell that already-massive head of yours, Potter, but you're an ace student. You do almost as much teaching as I do in those lessons, walking around offering help and advice. And they listen to you like they never will to me. These days, I'm just the grumpy bitch who dragged them out in the rain. You, at least, are suffering as much as they are, so they're on your side. I dare say this has been the most productive week of the year so far, and it's no small thanks to you, Potter.'

'Well why the need to make me target practice all the time, then?'

'Two reasons – the first being that it's when you do your best work, and give the most practical advice. You have this remarkable ability to both correct the students' ability, and also do it without seeming like a smug arse. It probably helps that they get to Stun you every so often, I guess.'

'And the second reason?'

'It gives me endless joy.'

James threw up his hands. He glared at Professor Meadows and her stupid, smug smile. He glared at the wall clock. He glared out the window at the stupid blue sky.

'It still doesn't explain why you have to go so hard on me in the lessons,' he said.

'You Gryffindors really _are_ as thick as everyone says. I make no secret of holding you to a different standard, James. You and Holly Brooks as well. You're both gifted beyond the abilities of many of your house-mates. So, do you think I'll just sit idly by and watch you coast through the lessons like a breeze? Nuh-uh. I'm a Hufflepuff, James. Things don't work like that for us. _Hard work_ is what will lead you to success. And if what's hard for the rest of the class isn't hard for you, then I'll find something that is. And make sure that you feel it. Just like the rest of them are, struggling with the things you seem to find so easy.'

'I bet you're not this harsh on Holly,' James muttered, and this time, it sounded sulky even to his own ears.

'You're right,' Professor Meadows nodded, shocking James. 'I'm not. And it comes down to a single, fundamental, irreversible difference between the two of you. Do you know what that is?'

James just shook his head.

'I _like_ Holly Brooks.'

'You're an arse. Did you know, when I started Hogwarts, a part of me hoped that I would have my own Dark Lord to fight, just like Dad did. Little did I know she'd wear flowery dresses, too much makeup, and teach Defence Against the Dark Arts.'

Zoe Meadows punched him in the arm, but she was smiling. '_That's_ the James I know and love. That's my boy. Now, you asked for a promise – I won't stop being hard on you, you can count on that. But I will stop marking your tests to N.E.W.T standards, instead of O.W.L. How's that sound?'

'You _what?'_

'I'll take that as a "yes".'

'So all of these tests I've been _barely_ passing–?'

'Well… yea.'

'Holly, too?'

'Uh-huh.'

'And?'

'Flying colours.'

'I hate you both.'

'Excellent. Now that we've got that out of the way, shall we begin?'

'Oughtn't we wait for Professor Longbottom?'

'Oh, he'll be another ten minutes or so. I told him to hang back half an hour, as I was sure you'd pack your tantrum today. Though I thought it'd be a touch more dramatic. Some tears, perhaps. More things thrown about the room, surely. I even arranged the desks all neatly for you, so you could really do some damage.'

'You are Voldemort in a dress, I'm telling you.'

'Come now, my nose is _far_ too perfect for that.'

'Ugh. Well, in that case, Professor Longbottom can catch up. I've wanted to talk all week. If I hadn't been so exhausted–'

'You mean sulky.'

'I'd have come by already. On the first night of term I saw Renshaw in the corridors, and I am _adamant_ she was rattling around inside my head. It was… it felt completely different to what I've been learning with you and Professor Longbottom, but I was sure of it. I felt somebody _else_ up there. Like a breath on the back of my neck, or a hand hovering just above my shoulder. I tried to block her out, but she knew _I_ knew, I'm sure of it.'

'Oh, _fuck,'_ Zoe Meadows whispered. She had gone deathly pale, her lips slightly parted. She wasn't even meeting James' eye, instead staring at a spot a few inches above his left shoulder, wide-eyed and quivering.

James frowned. 'It can't be _that_ bad, can it?'

But she didn't respond, only spun James around by the shoulder and pointed him back towards the door, where the very Headmistress about whom they had just been speaking was in the process of striding into the room amidst a great sweeping of midnight gowns and hard-edged stares.

'Forgive my intrusion, you two. I heard voices, so in the interest of being polite I waited out the door for a break in conversation. Now, I seem to have found a most opportune one.'

Her tone and her words were bright, but her eyes were hard and cold as ice. Even Professor Meadows was at a loss for words. This didn't dissuade Headmistress Renshaw, as she stopped before them, surveying them both in turn.

'You know, it is _most _interesting what one will hear around the castle if one will simply cast their mind out to listen. Walls are no barrier to the mind, after all. Thoughts carry far indeed, when projected with anger.'

Zoe frowned. James swallowed, and it was _his_ turn to go pale. The tirade he'd been trying to direct at Meadows on his way down…

'As for this conversation right here, I'm afraid, I couldn't help but overhear the odd snippet or two, and you'll have to correct me if I'm wrong, Professor Meadows, but it does appear that young Mister Potter is quite excelling in the subject of Defence Against the Dark Arts, is that correct?'

'Well, yes–'

'This is wonderful to hear. I am sure that James will be as relieved as I am. Such excellent performance as I chanced to hear you describe must, of course, end the necessity of remedial lessons, I should think?'

'But–'

'Effective _immediately.'_

'Yes, Headmistress.'

'And I should certainly hate to think that such a gifted individual was being unfairly graded for his most accomplished efforts, wouldn't you? Particularly if such a practice was entirely unsanctioned by myself, and could interfere with the results of a student's O.W.L examinations?'

'Of course, Headmistress.'

'Such an offense would almost certainly be punishable by termination of employment, I should imagine. O.W.L's are, after all, some of the most critical tests a student shall ever undertake.'

Any colour left in Zoe Meadows' face drained away. Even her lips looked ashen and pale. James caught her hand shaking before she took a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the table. Fifteen minutes prior, James would have loved to see her get such a dressing down, but right at that moment, he was far too busy being terrified himself.

'Very good,' Renshaw continued. The gaze she had used to pin the Professor against her desk was swung on to James, and he felt the full weight of it settle down upon him, cutting through him like broken glass and freezing him on the spot. 'Mister Potter, I'm sure that your relief upon learning of your vindication is immense, and I should encourage you, in the future, if you have any further questions regarding extra-curricular activities, to _seek me out first._ And if you do decide to do so, make sure you decide soon, as we both know that _time is of the essence.'_

With that, Renshaw wheeled and left. Her cloak flared. Her steps _clicked_ all the way out the door, uninterrupted. James and Zoe just stood there, watching her leave, dumbstruck.

Finally, Professor Meadows eventually raised a shaking hand, gesturing at the door. She was still pale and sickly-looking, leaning heavily against the desk behind her. 'Y-you should go, James,' she croaked.

James nodded in agreement and scurried to the door.

Lying low for the remainder of the weekend, James exited the Gryffindor common room only to head down and watch the Quidditch match between Slytherin and Ravenclaw. It was a rain-soaked, wind-howling affair, with much of the match obscured from the spectators' view, but the clouds parted just enough to put on full display the embarrassment for Odette Mansfield as she bungled a dive for the snitch, ending up in a heap in the mud at midfield, and leaving her Ravenclaw counterpart wide open to make an easy catch and steal an unlikely win for the blue-and-silver.

It wasn't until much later that James learned Odette had broken her arm in three places, and popped her shoulder clean out of its joint. She'd spent the whole weekend confined to the Hospital Wing. Had James been aware, he might have… He didn't know what might have happened, but suffice to say, things might have turned out differently. As it was, the loss to Ravenclaw was to be the last game of Quidditch Odette played that season, and, indeed, in all of her Hogwarts career.

Come the following Monday, James had no choice but to leave the safety of the common room. He peered up and down every corridor he entered, he scanned every stairwell, and sent one of the others into every room, just to check and make sure Renshaw wasn't lurking there, waiting. He kept what shaky walls he could manage up around his thoughts at all time, leaving him distracted and distant towards his friends. He mumbled away their inquiries into his jumpy nature with half-formed excuses, and spent the entire journey from Gryffindor tower down to the castle grounds with his head on full swivel.

And Monday was an early start for the fifth years. At least, for those who took Care of Magical Creatures. They were out of bed with the sun, and arrived at Hagrid's Hut to be greeted by the man himself looking far too chipper, and a watery sunrise looking far too timid to hold off the rain that was, once again, threatening to make their morning even more miserable.

There was, however, some small respite, as Hagrid whipped a garish peach-and-pink tablecloth off of a large trestle table and revealed it laden with pancakes, bacon, sausages and a veritable mountain of eggs. Without any need for invitation, thirty-odd sixteen-year-olds descended on the table as if they hadn't eaten in weeks, and Hagrid chuckled to himself, using the ensuing silence brought on by ravenous eating to explain the reason for their early-morning lesson.

'Today's the day,' he boomed, clapping his gigantic hands together loud enough to make Leah Ridley give a little _"squee!"_ and drop her fork. 'All of yer hard work an' efforts over the past few months is about to pay off. The wee Snuffling's yeh've been lookin' after are due to hatch today. And a flock always hatch together. They need the heat from the sun to warm 'em up a little, so by my guess, they'll start poppin' off in around fifteen minutes from now.

'The breeding pairs you've been lookin' after in yeh're small groups will want to do most o' the work. It's your job to help 'em clean the young-uns, bring them some food, make 'em comfortable, all o' that stuff we've been practisin' o'er the last few weeks an' months.

'A typical breedin' female will lay about six eggs. But here's the fun part – Snuffling's have plenty o' natural predators in the wild, so if they feel in danger, a few of the eggs will be decoys, with the hope that the predators will take those ones in place o' the real ones. The safer the Snuffling's feel, the fewer decoy eggs they'll lay, so those o' you who've best looked after yeh're charges the best will have the most young-uns – and score more marks. Then, all yeh've got to do is keep 'em alive 'til the end of the year to get your final grades.'

James, who was mopping up the last of a bit of egg yolk with some toast, was finally beginning to feel a touch more human. And a thought had occurred to him.

'Hagrid, how will we know which eggs are decoys? We could be waiting all day for the fake ones to hatch.'

'Good question, my boy!' Hagrid boomed. 'Nearly forgot to tell yer. The decoys won't hatch the same as the other eggs. They sort of… explode in a wee fireball. Nothing too dramatic, mind. But it's enough to toast eyebrows off, so yeh might want some gloves, just in case.'

Suddenly filled with a great deal more trepidation, James followed the class through Hagrid's pumpkin patch and around the back of his Hut to where the enclosure for the Snufflings was located. It was a small fenced area, about twenty paces square, with a variety of small mounds, ditches and low embankments – nothing too high, mind, as James watched no fewer than three of the idiot things fall off one after the other in the short span of time they had been watching. Dotted all about the enclosure were little dirt mounds, filled with clutches of bright, sapphire-blue eggs that gleamed in the early morning sunlight. Had James the inclinations of a fox or a ferret or any number of predators that might like the look of such grossly-conspicuous, unguarded delicacies, he could have simply reached down and plucked a handful off the ground, completely unguarded as they were, whist the brainless parents scurried around the enclosure in a frantic hurry to – it appeared – simply crash into one another and fall off ledges and into ditches. It really was little wonder these things were going extinct.

'Oh, they're so _cute!'_ Leah Ridley squealed, watching a pair bump into one another three consecutive times before managing to find a way past.

'Yea, I see a lot of you in them, Leah,' Tristan added with a sly smile next to James.

'Aww, _thanks,_ Tristan,' Leah crooned, serving only to cement the accuracy of the observation.

The class was then set the unenviable task of locating their respective breeding pairs of Snufflings, and subsequently using them to locate the correct nest of eggs. It was, in a word, mayhem.

'C'mere you feathered bacon sarnie,' Fred cursed, as he dove at a small cluster of them cowering in a corner of the enclosure. There was a grunt, a curse, and a puff of dust, and somehow, Fred came up empty-handed.

'The _one_ bloody thing they're good at is running away,' James growled, as he limped after a bright purple feathered one – which looked familiar to his female he'd named Suzy. He was, himself, sporting a nasty twisted ankle after falling into one of the thrice-damned ditches that criss-crossed the enclosure.

Tristan was rather adept at herding the brainless little things, and managed to pen a dozen or so in a corner of the enclosure in no time. He was methodically lifting each one up and checking its underbelly before placing them down again and letting them run loose.

'What you doing?' James asked, limping over for a breather. He'd just completed what felt like eighteen laps of the enclosure chasing after his Suzy, and had not a whiff of luck.

'I drew an "X" in ink on the bottom of our ones during the last lesson," Tristan explained casually. 'Makes it easier to find them.'

'Well you might have bloody told us!' James gasped, heaving his arms in the air in exasperation.

'I might've,' Tristan smirked. 'But it was a bloody lark watching you chase all over the joint like a madman.'

James gave him a shove, just as he heard Fred's cry from the other end of the enclosure. 'I've got you now, you bloody feather duster!'

They turned to see Fred wrangling a squirming Snuffling who _might_ have been Suzy, rolling about on the ground as if he were tangling with a crocodile, and not a foot-long ball of fluff and feathers. They told him about the "X", and, just as he had the little creature upside down to check, the inevitable occurred.

_Whoosh!_

'Argh!'

'Gloves, Weasley! Where are yer gloves?!'

Hagrid hurried over and snatched the still-smouldering Snuffling from Fred's hands, which were already turning an angry and blistered red.

'I told yer, did I not, that they catch fire if yer get 'em too excited?'

Fred just groaned, cradling his burned hands. Cat was surreptitiously stroking her hair, which _still_ hadn't grown back to full length from the time it had happened to her.

Eventually, the chaos subsided and the class managed to locate their respective Snuffling charges, with no small help from Hagrid. Fred was told he was not to be excused to head to the Hospital Wing, as – according to Hagrid – there was 'no ruddy potion able to fix stupid,' so instead, he was offered a burn salve, and confined to sitting at the back of the group and scowling at a newly-bald Suzy, and her mate Dale.

'Stupid flaming chickens,' Fred muttered. 'Just you wait… bit of gravy and some apple sauce… then we'll see who's laughing.'

Cat had collected Suzy and Dale up in her arms and was hugging them next to their little nest of six eggs, whispering to them not to pay Fred any mind at all.

The excitement and combustion and general bedlam lessened after that, and the lesson became something of a waiting game, as the heat from the sun's rays slowly seeped into the little sapphire eggs and the first few among the class began to hatch, to an endless stream of "_ooh's_" and "_aah's_" from the girls.

James lay back on the grass and gazed up at the pale blue sky, watching a solitary cloud drift across the face of the full moon, which was stubbornly remaining aloft, low on the horizon to the north.

'Good day for Quidditch,' he announced to the heavens, his mind – as it usually did – arriving at his favourite pastime as his concentration waned.

'Yea, great if your hands aren't so burnt you can barely hold a broom,' Fred grumbled.

'Better hope they heal up,' Tristan added. 'Hufflepuff plays Gryffindor in two weeks. You'd better be ready.'

'Top of the table clash,' James nodded. 'Battle for first place, and your first match back. Excited?'

'Relieved. And glad to get one over on those Council bullies. But not near as excited as Ava is. It's all she can talk about. _You're _all she can talk about, James. You should hear her going on in the common rooms come evening… she's like a broken record.'

'Oh, sod off.'

Tristan put on a faux high-pitched voice. '"Oh, James said _this_, James did _that_, I can't wait to get him in a broom closet and–"'

James shoved Tristan. Tristan fell backwards into Cat – who was holding their Snufflings and all six eggs. Cat squealed. Suzy squealed. Dale spontaneously combusted. There was a _whoosh,_ a _squee,_ and a great tangle of legs and arms and feathers. When the dust finally settled, Cat's hair was on fire once more, Dale and Suzy had bolted for the hills, and four little baby Snufflings were mewling and cooing in Cat's lap.

James sheepishly slunk off to track down the parents, as the look Cat was giving him from beneath her newly-smouldering bangs was cold enough to freeze his blood.

He made sure that when he returned, dangling Dale and Suzy from each hand, he was suitably muddied and scuffed and particularly complementary to Cat's new, mostly-bald look.

'You can hardly even tell,' he heard himself saying in a strangled, high-pitched voice.

Mercifully, there was little more excitement that awaited them, other than what appeared to be some explosive purple diarrhoea by one of the new Snuffling babies – whom Tristan had named Henry – and they finished up the lesson as one of only three groups to have hatched four Snuffling babies. Hagrid was most complimentary, and – burned extremities aside – he suggested that they were on track for full marks. That, at least, put a little more of a smile on Cat's face as they headed back up towards the castle for some well-deserved lunch and a nice, long shower.

James got as far as the Entrance Hall.

Professor Longbottom was standing at the foot of the Grand Staircase, ushering all of the milling students in the direction of the Great Hall, where James could see not even a hint of lunch was awaiting them. His confusion was obviously shared by the greater populace, as over a hundred of his classmates were shuffling and pushing and making little progress at anything beyond treading on one another's' toes and generally making a nuisance out of themselves.

He saw a familiar black braid flash into vision up ahead, and pushed his way towards it. Holly. He'd been meaning to speak to her about Rain–

When he arrived at the spot, there was no sign of her. Only a few, scowling, Slytherin seventh-years, who sent him on his way with a few firm shoves and an elbow into his ribs. He spun, cursing, and brushed up against somebody again. There was the briefest moment where James caught the scent of mint and lavender, and then he was spat out near the door to the Great Hall, through which the students were slowly funnelling.

He suddenly realising he felt a pressure in the pocket of his jeans, and reached down to find a folded note tucked in there. He opened it slowly, trying to keep the contents hidden from the scores of shuffling students around him, knowing already from whom it would be.

_You don't find me, I come to __**you.**_

'Bitch,' James muttered.

_Haul your lazy arse out of bed tonight. Usual time. Usual place. Try and bring your least annoying face. _

James scowled at the note and crumpled it back into his pocket, trying not to be relieved that he had finally heard from her. Damn her, but the least she could do was be civil. He scowled and glowered his way over to the Gryffindor table, with his empty stomach, his dark mood, and his muddied knees. To make matters worse, _still_ no food appeared before them on the tables.

A sudden flurry of noise from around the room, and Headmistress Renshaw stepped up to the dais before the head table. She quelled the whispers with a stern look, and even somehow managed to subdue the last dozen or so students who were shuffling in, late, quietening them with little more than a firm gaze and her force of will.

'Children,' she began, in a terse tone. 'We have some guests from the Ministry come to visit us today. They will be staying for a short while, and helping us to get to the bottom of these issues that have been cropping up around the castle. It shan't interfere with your classes or your schedules, but I think you ought to be introduced, as they had expressed a desire to talk to a certain few of you throughout their stay.

'It is my great pleasure to introduce two of the Ministry's finest Esoterics Engineers – Master Alderton Buckthorn and Miss Amelia Millhart.'

There was a scattering of confused applause, and two figures stepped forwards to take the podium.

The man was impressively built – with a thick, broad chest and arms like James' thighs. He had a piercing glare that could have given Renshaw's a few pointers, and the faint dusting of stubble darkening is square jaw and sunken cheeks. He looked, to James, oddly familiar, in a way he couldn't quite put his finger on, but a way that instantly raised his hackles, as if, from appearances alone, James just _knew_ he was bad news.

But the large man was nothing compared to the figure standing to his left. Tall and slender, Amelia Millhart wore a long, trailing black robe that hid her figure. Her hands were obscured by black gloves, a black scarf bunched underneath her chin, concealing the lower half of her face, and her hair was even tied back with a wide, black ribbon. But it was her eyes – the only feature that James could discern – that were the most unsettling – they were too bright, too vivid. They pierced through him like a hot poker and left the impression of a gaping hole in his chest. They quelled movement and warmth wherever they landed, bringing only wintry despair and fear.

Within only seconds of her approaching the dais, whisper-silence has descended upon the room. It took her only a few moments more to find James in the crowd, and his breath caught in his throat. That pang of fell familiarity threatened to overwhelm him. He saw the muscles of her face twitch, in what must have been a smile hidden behind that scarf. But it never reached those eyes. Those mismatched eyes. One, bright blue, and the other a verdant green.


	22. Bright Red Hair

A warm, golden light slowly began to suffuse James' blurry vision as his eyes slowly opened. He blinked, scrubbing them with the heel of his palm. High, arched windows above, a firm, functional mattress at his back, and the _click-click _ of heeled boots echoing in the stark, militaristic space could only mean one thing.

He'd landed in the Hospital Wing.

But that didn't make any sense. The last thing he could remember was…

Eyes. Those eyes. One green, one blue, the force of their gaze washing through him like a river in flood. He suddenly felt cold sweat prickle the nape of his neck. He tried to sit up, but felt an instant head rush and swayed, clutching at his bedside table for support and knocking over a glass of water that had been standing there.

'What's all this racket?' demanded Madam Petheridge in her prim, clipped tones, as she bustled over and threw back the curtains surrounding James' bed. But her expression softened when she saw James sitting up gingerly on his pillows.

'S-sorry,' James croaked, suddenly realising how much he'd miss that glass of water.

'Not to worry, dear,' Petheridge smiled, and with a wave of her wand she cleared the mess away. 'I'll fetch you another, won't be a moment.'

And off she bustled, a swishing of skirts, and a _click-click _of heels echoing throughout the cavernous room.

James made an attempt to get himself more comfortable. He wiggled his fingers and toes and rolled his shoulders experimentally. Everything seemed to be in perfect working order. He felt no pain – physically, at least – only a mild discomfort directly behind his eyes, like the afterthought of a headache, along with the sensation that his thoughts were swimming in treacle – so slow and arduous was his brain moving.

Sooner than expected, he heard footsteps approaching. He turned to face them, hitching a smile onto his face. 'Thanks, I'm parched…'

He trailed off. The hand that he had extended expectantly fell to the bedsheets at his waist. It was not Madam Petheridge that appeared from behind the curtains, but the two Ministry Esoterics Engineers – Buckthorn and Millhart. They loomed over him menacingly, and Buckthorn's eyes were gleaming brightly above a particularly predatory smile.

'Good morning, Mister Potter,' he said in a deep, calm voice. As if he knew he had all the time in the world. As if he had James exactly where he wanted him.

'Is it?' James retorted with a false calm. 'I seem to have slept in a touch.'

The cold smile offered by Buckthorn bared a flash of brilliant teeth but never reached his eyes. 'Was our introduction really so dull?'

'I've never had much time for the Ministry sort, myself,' James replied, barely controlling a bubbling anger that was being fuelled by an undercurrent of fear. There was something off about Buckthorn, now that he saw him up close. Something that didn't seem very Ministry-like at all. Most of the officials that James had met were old and stuffy and probably needed help finding their wand most mornings. This calm, controlled power that roiled behind the visage of Alderton Buckthorn was as un-ministerial as James could imagine.

'Nor have I,' Buckthorn sneered, and there seemed to be much more hidden behind those few words. 'But for bright young children such as yourself, Mister Potter, I have all the time in the world.'

James worked on showing the sourest smile that he could muster. Perhaps it was because he knew that these people represented the clock that was ticking for him to find evidence for Rain's involvement – or lack thereof – in what was happening to the castle, but he found himself falling into a default of animosity when face to face with the pair of them. As if they were lifelong adversaries, rivals reunited. This wasn't helped by the fact that there seemed to be some sort of fell familiarity about Buckthorn that James just couldn't put his finger on. As if they'd crossed paths before.

And as for Amelia Millhart, with those eyes…

James chanced another look at Buckthorn's hitherto silent companion.

'It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Master Potter.' Her voice was slightly muffled from behind the cowl bunched about her neck. Her features remained mostly hidden beneath a midnight-hued hood, and yet… somehow, her eyes still managed to glint and glimmer with vibrant light from within the shadowy depths.

James recoiled before he succumbed to another wave of dizziness. He _knew_ that feeling…

'There's nothing to fear, James,' Millhart spoke softly, stepping to the fore and laying a hand softly on the edge of his bed.

James found himself looking up once more. There had been something in her voice, an invitation that he found himself accepting before he even understood what he was doing. He purposely made eye contact this time, putting as much force into such an act as one could manage.

The idea stole across his consciousness without warning. As if a voice had whispered it softly in his ear, it came to him, almost alien, but immediately accepted.

He'd never knowingly used Legilimency before – it was Occlumency, the _defense_ of the mind, that he sought to master – but he knew that proficiency in one did foster a certain inherent aptitude for the other. He knew how it felt to be probed. He'd heard Professors Longbottom and Meadows discuss how it worked, albeit vaguely. So he had a fair idea of what was required to be the aggressor…

He _pushed_ his consciousness forwards, extending it outwards from his body. Feeling an almost-too-easy sensation of slipping away, as if suddenly emerging from a warm pool of water. He was still aware of his body, of his racing heart and twitching fingers. He could even feel the muscles tense in his cheeks as he offered up a cold smile in Millhart's direction. But a sort of double-vision plagued him, momentarily disconcerting, before he made a _contact_ with Millhart.

A coupling that he instantly realised as successful Legilimency.

He had less than a moment to appreciate it, as something seized him instantly. A suffocating iron grip bore down from every angle. It squeezed his mind with a dizzying amount of force. He thought he ought to be gasping and spluttering for breath, but in his double-vision, he saw himself – as if from another pair of eyes, _Millhart's_ – to be sitting deathly still, a tiny bead of sweat forming above his left eye.

It was then that he realised he could not feel it. He couldn't sense the sweat at all, only see it from what he suddenly realised was a prison. A steel cage that encircled him, squeezing his consciousness until only the barest of tethers remained back to his body. Had he control of his lungs, his breath would have been coming quick and fast. He hammered against invisible walls, but to no avail. His vision was becoming fogged and grainy around the edges. Sometimes he saw his own perspective, sometimes Millhart's. And sometimes there was only nothing, just vast, empty blackness.

Fear flooded through him. It gripped with icy talons and dug deep into his mind, sending spreading roots down, to the most primal layer of his awareness. He realised too late what these roots were, that the subtle familiarity they possessed belonged to Millhart. She was permeating his psyche utterly, wringing from him every memory, every experience he had ever lived. He could feel her as surely as if her hand punched through his chest and rummaged down beneath his ribcage. And her ministrations were just as painful. James screamed, though it did no good. Trapped as he was, there was nobody to hear him.

But a voice answered. Spoken as if from a great distance. Muddled and fuzzy. Nonsensical. The pain stopped. The fingers withdrew – so suddenly as to leave great, gaping wounds behind. Millhart's presence vanished, and for a moment James had the sensation of bursting free from his prison, crashing through a wall of shattered glass. No – a mirror. And in it he saw reflected…

'–my patients are _off limits _to your snooping and probing, I'll have you know! Ministry folk or not, you've no right to be in here without my permission, which I most _absolutely_ will not be giving.'

Madam Petheridge had stormed back onto the scene, James' glass of water in one hand, whilst the other brandished a tray of bandages threateningly in the direction of Millhart and Buckthorn.

James saw all of this as if through a tunnel, with a bleak, foggy greyness muddling it all. He tried to blink away a splitting pain behind his eyes, a pain that spread all the way to his fingers and toes with every pulsating beat of his thundering heart.

'Deepest apologies,' Buckthorn offered with a low bow. 'We didn't mean to intrude. We simply had a question or two for young Mister Potter here.'

'A question that leaves him just about unconscious?!' Petheridge's voice rang with incredulous rage.

The Ministry Esoterics Engineers only smiled blithely in response.

'Be good to him,' Millhart purred over her shoulder as they turned to leave. 'He's been _very_ helpful, indeed…'

James didn't even get to hear their footsteps fade entirely before the greyness overtook him and he slipped into unconsciousness once more.

It wasn't until lunchtime that he resurfaced, likely thanks to a fiercely rumbling stomach. And it wasn't until classes were _just_ about over for the day that he started pestering Madam Petheridge to let him go. He had Quidditch practice scheduled that afternoon, and while classes were perfectly replaceable in James' mind, a full hour-and-a-half session down on the pitch in calm conditions, such as they were, was most certainly not. He made his feelings abundantly clear to the exasperated matron, and finally managed to wear her down when he threatened to call Fred and the team in to have an indoor session right there in the Hospital Wing.

So it was, admittedly still a little woozy, and under the dubious side effects of approximately half a dozen potions, all of which were trying unsuccessfully to dull the pain behind his eyes, James Potter staggered and weaved his way down to the Quidditch pitch that evening. Their upcoming match against Hufflepuff was set to be crucial to the championship. It was shaping up to be a two horse race this year, and James was determined to come out on top.

But unfortunately, Gryffindor were unlikely to make great leaps in that direction on this particular sunny afternoon, as the aftereffects of what Amelia Millhart had done to James' mind were slow in releasing their thorny grip. He stuttered and meandered his way through half of the practice session before finally admitting defeat and handing the reigns over to Preston Lynch, his vice-captain.

James flew over to the nearest Gryffindor stand to watch on, cradling his throbbing head in his hands and trying to focus enough so that the six remaining players out on the pitch stopped turning into twelve, or even eighteen. He had shrugged off Fred's concerned looks, and pointedly ignored any questions from his teammates. There was something stopping him from talking about what Millhart had done. And until he could get his mind back to functioning normally, he didn't want to let slip what had happened.

So, solitary, headache-laced misery it was, then. James tried to mull over what Millhart had been looking for. Had he been a target specifically, or was that how they planned on dealing with all of the students? The former seemed more likely. Millhart and Buckthorn would fast outstay their welcome if they went around flensing the minds of the whole student body.

They must have suspected, too, then, that James would stay quiet about what had happened. For it was fast becoming clear to him that he would not tell a soul. Never mind the embarrassment of his hubris in trying to see inside Millhart's mind in the first place, he wanted to get a better idea of just what these Esoterics Engineers were up to, and he wouldn't get that by flushing them out so early.

The final question to answer was, why him? How could they know that he was close to what was happening. Renshaw could have told them, certainly, but James didn't think it likely. She played her cards too closely to her chest for that. So it came back to the fact that they must have some knowledge that James as unaware of. Coupled with the familiarity surrounding them both that James just couldn't shake, and he was forced to arrive at the fact that he was missing something critical about them, but whatever it was remained elusive to his fogged mind, all the way through until the practice wound up, and James made his lonely way back towards the castle.

His dreary reverie was shattered before he made it more than half-way, however, by a familiar voice calling to him from back towards the Quidditch pitch. At this hour it had begun to get dark, and it had long since gotten cold, though there were still a few students making their way back up towards the castle. Students who had been enjoying the relatively short wintry evenings in the fresh, cool air. A pair of frantically chattering Ravenclaw girls hurried past James about some urgent business or other, and he contented himself to stay put as Ava Adams pulled up alongside him, no doubt fresh from spying on the Gryffindor's practice – not that she'd have gleaned much usable information, with James in his current sorry state.

'Evening, Ava,' James said gloomily, stuffing his hands in his pockets and turning to fall in step with her up towards the castle.

'What's got you down, James?' she asked brightly. 'Your Quidditch practice was a little… underwhelming.'

At least she had the decency not to lie about what she had been doing.

James contemplated an answer for a short moment. They reached a covered walkway, and for a moment the trickling of water from a fountain filled their ears. Here, they had shelter from a chill northerly breeze that had begun to stir the surface of the Black Lake, and make scarves and gloves appear on students as if by a mass summoning charm. The foot traffic was a little heavier here, too, as they came close to the Entrance Hall. James waited until a gaggle of Gryffindor first-years had finished scurrying past, hot on the trail of what looked to be a fleeing purple rabbit.

'Just feeling under the weather,' James eventually said. It was only half a lie, really. 'Splitting headache today.'

'Oh, that's no good at all. I do hope it's gone by the weekend.'

'Right. The Quidditch match.'

'Sure is! I bet it's going to be a close one, your team looks so good this year, James.'

'Huh, thanks…' truthfully, James' head was distracting him far too much to allow him to offer any reasonable sort of companionship, and he was fast beginning to tire of Ava's incessant cheeriness.

'I've, er… I've been meaning to ask you something James. I mean, I've been planning to ask you. After the game. I'll meet you in the Gryffindor change rooms. If, er, that's fine with you?'

James didn't pick up on the expectant look that Ava had suddenly turned upon him, and so when he shrugged his shoulders and wordlessly nodded his head, he took her little squeal of glee and clap of the hands as just her usual over-the-top elation.

It wasn't until she reached in, wrapped him up in a lightning-fast hug and planted a swift kiss on his cheek so fleeting he thought he'd imagined it, that James realised he might have just agreed to something a little more than a post-match Captain's breakdown.

The thought almost – _almost_ – got a smile to register on his face as Ava skipped happily away, humming a bouncy tune beneath her breath.

In his defence, he hadn't been deliberately vague with Ava. His attention had been torn away from their conversation the moment they entered the courtyard before the Entrance Hall. Standing off in the far corner, enshrouded in shadows just enough to make James squint to be sure he was seeing anything at all, were two hooded figures. They could have been almost anyone, but James knew instantly who they were. And though dozens of students had filed through the courtyard in the time since he had entered, their gaze had never left his and Ava's conversation.

Alderton Buckthorn and Amelia Millhart were watching him. Intently.

'Just because I'm paranoid, Holly, doesn't mean they're not out to get me.'

The hour was much later that same evening, and James and Holly both were ensconced in their usual alcove, staking out the sixth-floor corridor beneath the Ravenclaw Tower, to try and catch a glimpse of Rain.

Holly gave a very unladylike snort that was loud enough to cause a few of the local portraits to stir in their frames.

'Put a sock in it, James. Your trousers start pitching a tent every time somebody even whispers "conspiracy" in your direction. It's nothing.'

'You spend a lot of time thinking about what's going on in my trousers, do you?'

'Pass me that candlestick, so I can shove it up your–'

'Wait a minute. Hush.'

'Don't you _hush_ me, Potter. I'll–'

'Hush, _Brooks._ Someone is coming.'

Holly did eventually hush, but not without throwing him one final, very loud look of distaste, crossing her arms most huffily and pointedly glaring off out into the corridor they were watching.

Small satisfaction though it was, to irk Holly when her sole purpose these days seemed to be to get under his skin, James was worried. He hadn't told her everything about the confrontation in the Hospital Wing with Millhart and Buckthorn. If he told her, and they managed to corner him again, then _she_ would be at risk as well. It was a large part of the reason why he couldn't tell another soul. He couldn't risk putting any of his friends in danger. And as loathsome as Holly's company often was these days, James was certain some sort of kernel of friendship still existed between them.

Only buried very, very deep.

Sure enough, the faint sound of footsteps that James had heard earlier began to grow stronger. It didn't take long for James to identify two sets. And it took even less time for his heart to sink as his mind leapt to the conclusion of who it would be.

Buckthorn and Millhart.

Sure enough, the two Ministry figures strode into view from James and Holly's left. From a corridor that James _knew_ only led to a cleaning cupboard, a classroom where all the chairs screamed when sat upon, and an odd little room only three feet square that seemed to have a trampoline as the floor.

Subconsciously, James shrunk back in their little hide, pushing himself as far into the shadows as he was able, and held his breath. He watched as the pair strode out onto the landing, and paused conspicuously, as if torn between heading up towards Ravenclaw Tower, or down to the Grand Staircase. After a low, murmured conversation which James couldn't make out, they headed downwards, lighting their wands to better see the stair laid out before them.

'We need to follow them,' James said through gritted teeth. He expected ridicule, but instead found unabashed sympathy on Holly's face as she studied him intently.

'You… James, you're _terrified_ of them. What did they do to you?'

James almost told her, then. That earnest look glittering in her wide, grey eyes slipped deftly past his guard and almost completely disarmed him. But he couldn't. For her sake.

'N-nothing. Come on, we need to move.'

And just like that, walls went back up, the temperature between them cooled notably, and it was back to Potter and Brooks slipping out to tail the Ministry figures through Hogwarts castle beneath the cloak of night.

'Keep up, Potter,' Holly hissed as they alighted on the fifth floor landing. Faint traces of wandlight were just disappearing off up a corridor to their left. They tailed it in darkness, using their familiarity with the environs alone as a guide.

Eventually, they came to a stop on the third floor, in a section of the east wing that had already lost two classrooms that James knew of. A spot that was directly above the portion of the second floor that had been deemed under attack just before the holidays. James and Holly held back, crouching behind a suit of armour back up the corridor a ways, peering into the glowing sphere centred on Buckthorn and Millhart. Though their voices were too distant to make out, James could see their every move well enough, and their position outside the globe of wandlight would mean that he and Holly would be virtually invisible.

They watched as the pair stopped adjacent a small mantel crowded with dusty figurines and miniature sculptures. A display of antiquities like any other in the castle, James had walked past this one in particular for years without ever truly registering its existence. Buckthorn produced something from the depths of his coat – another figurine. Identical to the one Amelia Millhart was in the process of pulling down off of the shelf.

James and Holly shared a perplexed look, but remained silent as Buckthorn placed the idol into the vacated spot, adjusted it so it sat identical to the previous one, and then leaned in to share a quiet word with Millhart. There was the sound of a low, gravelly chuckle, and then the two Ministry figures turned up the corridor – away from James and Holly – and carried on. Before they'd even left James' sight, Millhart lifted up the corner of a large, ornate tapestry and tossed the old idol – the one she had taken down – behind it, discarded out of sight.

A few moments more, and James and Holly exhaled together, light and sound of the Ministry pair now long gone.

'What in the hell was that all about?' Holly asked rhetorically.

James led the way up the corridor to inspect the new figurine placed by Buckthorn. A witch in a swirling robe, wand held aloft. But for a little less dust than the others on the shelf, James could tell no difference at all. He reached towards it, but Holly swiftly slapped his hand away.

'Don't bloody touch it, you idiot. Who knows what spells they could have put on it? It's probably a trap, or something, set up to catch Rain. Or whoever is doing this to the castle.'

James' hand dropped to his side. 'Good point,' he mumbled.

The pair studied the figure from a distance for a while longer, speculating on what exactly it could do. Eventually, though, tiredness got the better of them, and Holly begged off to bed, heading off in the direction that Buckthorn and Millhart had taken, down through the castle. James went in the opposite direction, but only as far as the next landing up, where he waited, counting to one hundred to ensure Holly really _was_ gone, before doubling back to the corridor that he had just left.

He fished out the old idol from behind the tapestry, and very carefully replaced the Ministry idol for the original, pocketing the one that Buckthorn had produced from his coat.

Whatever it was that those two were doing, it was unlikely to be something that Renshaw approved of, if they were slinking around the castle to carry it out in the middle of the night. This meant that it was _exactly_ the kind of thing that James wanted to uncover. And the kind of thing that he didn't need to trouble Holly about. The less she knew about it, the safer she was, if James' recent experiences had told him anything.

He'd spent most of the day feeling outfoxed and bested by these mysterious Ministry officials. But it had taken them fewer than twenty-four hours to slip up on James' turf. And just like that, he was back one step ahead of them.

So it was that James rolled into the weekend with a spring returned to his step, the ghost of his splitting headache little more than a memory, and a wealth of confidence on his belt as he led the Gryffindor Quidditch team out onto the pitch to the sound of a roaring crowd. He raised his arms above his head and listened for his name. '_Potter! Potter! Potter!'_

Al darted in and elbowed James in the ribs, holding his own broom aloft and soaking in the adoration. The brothers laughed, and led their team in taking to the air, whipping close by the Hufflepuffs just as they emerged from their own stand, and coming within touching distance of a startled Ava Adams. The crowd ate it up.

James signalled Preston to the left side of the field, and Carissa to his right. Fred and Jen took their positions slightly above and ahead of them, while Al began to hover directly above the centrepoint of the pitch, about fifty feet in the air. They waited, calm and collected, as Ava shouted orders against the torrent of noise from the crowd. The Gryffindor fans noticed her struggling, and cranked up the noise even further. James calmly made some minor adjustments to his teams' positioning with the hand signals they had worked on throughout the year.

James met Ava in the centre of the pitch. Declan Hawksby, the flying instructor and referee, awaited them. He had to shout to be heard, even over such a short distance. He wasn't helped by a sudden, blustery wind that had picked up, blowing left-to-right across the pitch. James noted it, and signalled behind his back for Preston and Carissa to swap sides.

'Captains!' Roared Hawksby, and they both leaned in. Ava winked at James, momentarily unsettling him. 'Let's keep it tidy today. This wind is forecast to pick up throughout the afternoon, so stay safe, play fair, and may the best team win!'

'We will,' smirked James.

'Oh James!' Ava giggled. 'You're so silly!'

And with that, she turned and flew back to her team, already barking orders and gesticulating wildly.

'D'you sometimes wonder if she's not quite… _all there?'_ Hawksby asked, watching Ava leave.

'What?!' yelled James, deafened by a sudden, blustery gust.

'Never mind! Good luck.'

James nodded, and re-joined the formation. All eyes swung to the chest resting on the half-way mark of the pitch. The crowd noise finally receded. From somewhere in the stands, a cannon fired. Hawksby jabbed his wand, and two streaks of black burst from the chest, followed by a glint of gold. The match had begun.

James dove in as quick as he could to secure the Quaffle. What Ava had over him in finesse, he had in pure speed, and he felt a surge of satisfaction as his fingers clamped down on the firm leather, leaving Ava's nails to scrabble in vain against the back of his hand.

He instinctively avoided a well-placed elbow from Ava, and threw a blind pass to his left, where they had planned for Carissa to be waiting. Sure enough, he heard her yell that she'd secured position, and so he tore off up the pitch without looking back.

The move they had schemed up for the opening play involved a series of complicated passes back and forth between Carissa and Preston, designed to cross up the Hufflepuff defenders while James streaked towards the goal hoops before Ava could about face and match him. If it had worked as planned, he ought to be…

_Whump._ James reached out and caught Preston's pinpoint deep pass. Exactly as planned. He had a one-on-one shot against the Keeper, whom he easily vexed with a wicked Baltic Backspin shot that curved upwards over outstretched arms and clean through the centre hoop. Ten-nil to Gryffindor.

But they didn't stop to celebrate it, as now the work really began. They fell back into their designed defense for the match. It was a tactic James had come up with during one of his many sleepless nights over the past few weeks. Their team was faster than Hufflepuff, by a good margin. They had better brooms, and were at least equal in talent, perhaps with the exception of Ava. And what Carissa lost by having a slightly slower broom, she more than made up for with her agility and oily grace, combined with a burgeoning mean streak that James had been quietly cultivating as the season progressed. They pressed up on the Hufflepuff Chasers, sitting right in their hip pockets, and refusing to be shaken loose. This left Ava with no good options to throw to. So she would be forced to try and take James on one-on-one.

Just what he had wanted.

For it was widely held amongst the student body that Ava Adams and Odette Mansfield were generational talents upon a broomstick. Even the professors who paid attention had a hard time recalling any students who had shown more promise. The fearlessness with which Odette handled her speed was unrivalled. And Ava could outfox anybody between the goal hoops, so clean and refined were her aerial manoeuvres that she could have the opposition flying circles around themselves within a few short moments.

But nobody said the same about James. Sure, they agreed he was talented, and sure, most agreed he was a good choice as captain. But he'd be damned if he was going to go another season as an afterthought in the conversation of Hogwarts' greatest flier.

The smile Ava gave him as she hefted the Quaffle and set off down the pitch was as if she had read his mind. She invited him in close, holding the Quaffle loosely in one hand, weaving her way slowly forwards as if confused and confounded by Gryffindor's tight defensive scheme. But James knew better. The moment he closed down is approach angle, she would tear off up the pitch, and he'd be hard pressed to reel her back in. So instead, he played soft coverage, shepherding her towards the right-hand side of the pitch, where she would be forced to pass or shoot into the stiff, gusting breeze.

Eventually, she made her move. She dipped beneath a Bludger from Jen Redfern and tore off low, towards the centre of the pitch. James dove in to block her, stiffening his shoulder in anticipation of a blow–

That never came. Ava somehow contorted herself backwards on the seat of her broom – still with Quaffle in hand – and dipped just beneath James' expectant contact. She breezed right by him, leaving him squared up against thin air. A scattering of laughter from the yellow-and-black clad supporters caused his ears to burn.

Mercifully, a pinpoint Bludger from Fred saved James' blunder, as he cracked one into Ava's shoulder, causing her to drop the Quaffle. Moving mostly on instinct, James scooped it up barely a metre from the turf, and bolted back up the pitch to slot it past the Hufflepuff Keeper again and double Gryffindor's lead.

This time, Ava's smile caused James' blood to boil. It was like she _knew._ As if she had enjoyed embarrassing him. And she was inviting him back to make a fool of himself again.

James would see to it that her wish was denied.

There was nothing passive about his defense the second time around. He pushed up on Ava immediately, forcing her again to the outer limits of the stadium, daring her to weave in and out between the stands. Fred suddenly appeared above and ahead of them, winding up a solid crack on a Bludger. James didn't flinch, trusting to the accuracy of his cousin, but Ava was forced to swoop low, leaving herself exposed to a predatory attack from above.

This time, James was sure of his contact, driving his hip firmly into Ava's shoulder. He heard a satisfying grunt, the Quaffle slipped free, and he wrapped a hand around it, sawing on the handle of his broomstick to bring it around and–

_Smack!_

Somehow, through another eye-wateringly acrobatic trick, Ava had managed to loop a foot around the haft of James' broom. This caused the nose to dip violently, catch on the turf beneath them, and send James careening forwards, losing the Quaffle and tumbling head over heels enough times to make himself feel sick.

More laughter. Drowned out eventually by cheers from the Gryffindors, as Lynch had regained James' lost possession and scored. James slowly righted himself and re-mounted his broom. The grinding of his teeth was audible to his ears even over the roar of the wind.

Thirty to nil. Ava's restart. That irksome smile that inexplicably grew more smug with every Gryffindor goal.

This time, though, Ava opted to pass. But James' defensive strategy worked a treat, as Bludgers from both Jen and Fred bore down on the hapless Hufflepuff Chaser, and he dropped the pass right into the waiting lap of Carissa Li, who flicked a smooth pass to Preston Lynch who then saw to it that Gryffindor's lead was extended again.

_Fine,_ James growled. If he wasn't going to earn his fame as an outstanding flier, at least his moves as a tactician were on full display. Ten minutes into the game and they had completely shut down Hufflepuff's high-flying offense. He'd take that compromise any day of the week.

And so it continued for another half hour: James managing to just hold his own against an increasingly formidable Ava Adams, but the Gryffindor team as a whole utterly stifling the Hufflepuff attack, by throwing all of their resources at it. Fred and Jen were working full time hounding all three of the yellow-and-black Chasers. Preston and Carissa were stuck to their counterparts as if a Permanent Sticking Charm was in play.

Gryffindor's forty point lead became eighty. But Ava's smile never left her face. She restarted again. With growing confidence, James rushed her, looking to force an early contact and out-muscle her in front of her own goal. He drove in, shoulder to shoulder–

And Ava cried out, flinging herself backwards and dropping the Quaffle, clutching her face.

Hawksby's shrill whistle blew for a foul. A wave of boos thundered out from the stands, all directed at James.

'What are you playing at, Potter?' Hawksby growled.

'I didn't–' but the referee wasn't listening, turning already to mark the spot directly in front of Gryffindor's goal where Ava would take the foul.

James felt a presence hovering at his side. It was Ava, with an entirely uninjured face, and a wicked gleam in her eye. 'Yea, _Potter,_' she smirked. 'You can't hit a _girl.'_

'You little–'

But Ava, too, ignored him, following Hawksby up the pitch to take her shot.

While she prepared to take it, James called his team aside, adjusting their tactics to be solely focused on making Ava's life hell. Every Bludger would have her name on it. They'd harass her every pass, shadow her every move, double cover her if they had to.

'Whatever it takes,' James growled through gritted teeth. 'Stop Ava Adams.'

The game ground on, with James' vision acted out play by teeth-jarring play. Hufflepuff clawed back a couple of goals, but Gryffindor continued to edge ahead. Ava suffered a split lip courtesy of a stray kick, she wore a Bludger clean in the solar plexus from Fred, and another in the back of the head from Jen, but she just kept on smiling.

One hundred and forty to thirty. Now it was James who was beginning to smile. He lunged at Ava off yet another restart, forcing her low to the ground. He sensed Jen Redfern high and to his right. Sure enough, the black streak of a Bludger tore through his vision, narrowly missing them both. Ava broke left, and James tailed her, sticking tight to her right shoulder, making any sort of a pass to her teammates all but impossible. She pulled up abruptly, trying to shake James. But his better broom kept him in touch. High above them, shouts and curses came from the other Chasers, as the Hufflepuffs fought for position, and the Gryffindors sought to deny it. Around them, the crowd noise was almost entirely lost to the roaring wind in James' ears.

Suddenly, Ava bolted once more. James fell into pursuit. He noted she had switched the Quaffle to her left hand – her off-hand, which could only mean one thing. So when she made to break left, away from him, James didn't bite on what he had surmised was a feint, instead positioning himself to block off her path as she tried to cut in front of him, directly towards the goal hoop.

There was a thundering crunch of bodies. James kept enough of his wits about him to reach around and knock the Quaffle free from Ava's hands and extricate himself before they became tangled. He dove triumphantly, shouting 'Hah!' as he secured the Quaffle, having bested Ava fair and square.

But the thundering in his ears was no longer the wind. It was the roar of a jubilant crowd. An ecstatic screaming building to a fever pitch that could only mean one thing: _the Snitch had been caught._

And sure enough, as he looked wildly around, he spied the Hufflepuff Seeker waving her fist aloft over midfield, and Al laid out down near Gryffindor's goal hoops, recovering from a pair of nasty Bludger hits. The game was over. Hufflepuff had won.

'Unlucky, James!' Ava called, as she raced by to join her team. 'Better luck next time!'

_Was_ that smugness in her tone? James couldn't tell. He could never tell, when it came to Ava Adams. And that was what annoyed him the most.

Their post-match breakdown was kept short and clinical. With the benefit of hindsight, it was painfully obvious to James, the failings of the one-eyed strategy he had been so proud of. Nobody said it, but they didn't need to: his ego had cost them the match. His desire to best Ava Adams had left Al entirely exposed with no help from his Beaters when he needed it the most. There was little that his teammates could have said to be harder on him than he already was on himself. He dismissed them after little more than fifteen minutes, and sat alone with only the bitter taste of defeat for company.

But his grim solitude was soon interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching outside the locker room. James' eyes darted around the room, but no obvious hiding place presented itself to him. Not that he really had the energy to spare, even if it had.

'You played well today, James.' Ava Adams stood in the doorway. She wore her battle wounds from the recent match as boldly and proudly as her bright yellow Hufflepuff t-shirt. Some of those bruises, James had probably inflicted himself.

'Sorry about your… face,' James offered lamely. He was currently dealing with some very mixed feelings about Ava's appearance at that particular moment. He wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't have preferred another round with Millhart and Buckthorn.

'And I'm sorry I manipulated you, on the pitch. Do you mind if I…?' she gestured to a seat next to James.

The sigh he let out seemed to sap the very last of James' waning energy, and he slunk down into his chair, tilting his head up to the ceiling. 'How did you know?' he asked. He hadn't answered her question, but heard her enter the room nonetheless, and realised – quite bemusedly – that he was pleased she had done so.

'It wasn't so hard, really,' Ava said softly, sliding in on James' left. He brought with her a cool, floral scent that made James suddenly self conscious about his own sweaty, post-match musk. 'You're not the only one who can read the game, you know. And besides, after that first passage of play, it was obvious what you were up to. You just couldn't get enough of me, could you?'

'Something like that,' came James' bitter laugh.

Ava leaned in. The sudden contact up against James' arm caused him to jolt upright, and sent a burst of energy coursing through his lethargic muscles.

'You _are_ good, you know. Not many people can give me hell like that. A few more rounds and you might have broken me. Not to mentioned gained a one hundred and fifty point lead. You were _this_ close.'

She held up her thumb and forefinger, about an inch apart.

James' smile was wry as he leaned forward and pushed a finger through the gap. 'Just enough space to fit a Snitch.'

As James reached out, Ava's grip closed around his extended hand – cautiously, so that James could still feel the barest hint of a nervous quiver. He made no move to pull back, instead letting their conjoined hands fall gently into Ava's lap. Firm callouses from years of broom riding were hard against the back of James' hand, while he was certain she felt something similar, as her thumb traced softly back and forth across his own palm. He looked up slowly, meeting her expectant gaze.

'I hope there's no hard feelings, James,' she said, suddenly hesitant.

'I'm a big boy. I'm sure I'll get over it.'

'Good.' There was a moment's pause, in which James and Ava both sat frozen. When Ava broke off eye contact, James had the distinct feeling that something had just slipped through his fingers. 'Because I was hoping to ask you something. Next week is Hogsmeade weekend, and, well, I guess you would have heard that the Tutshill Tornadoes are hosting a lunch at the Leaky Cauldron…'

James nodded. 'Yea, but it's not open to students, is what I heard. Nobody is allowed in.'

'Well, about that… I _might_ have managed to get special dispensation, because my Mum works in their front office. And she said I could bring somebody along with me…'

_Surely not._ James was nodding like a bobble-head toy, eyes massive in his face.

'Would you, James? D'you want to come along.'

James had rooted against the Tornadoes for as long as he could remember. But in that moment, he found himself unable to agree any faster.

'Sounds great!'

'Awesome!' Ava leaned in and gave James a quick peck on the cheek, before leaping to her feet and looking back over her shoulder, allowing a curtain of hair to hide her flushed red cheeks. James didn't quite have that luxury. 'Well, I'll see you around, then.'

'Yea. Excellent. That's great. Thanks. Bye, Ava.'

Unable to make his mind up on exactly which statement to say, James had decided on all of them. He was still saying his bumbling farewell when Ava disappeared from the room. But he didn't mind so much. After what had earlier felt like a day of total defeat, he was starting to get the feeling that he might just have scored a win after all.


	23. Cleaning the Table

'So you see, class, only the very _gentlest_ of touches is required for this subtle Transmutation. Now, if you will observe, the rock can still be picked up and held in my hand, but if I were to give it the gentlest of pushes - like _so_ \- after uttering the incantation _Cambiaparvum,_ you will note that it flows as if it is a liquid, while still retaining its overall form. Thus, a Partial Substrate Variance Transmutation.'

Already partially cross-eyed at this point, James let out a great groan of despair. Somehow, Transfiguration just seemed to get harder and harder with each passing week. He looked forlornly down at his desk, and the remnants of the rock he had been practising on, which had exploded into a thousand tiny pieces, each with the approximate texture of bubble-gum.

His efforts were worse, even, that Fred's puddle of muddy brown water pooled about the feet of his desk that had already caused Professor Plye to have a meltdown about the ineptitude of his charges. Not that Tristan had fared much better - his rock had caught fire with small green flames which he had spent the past fifteen minutes trying in vain to extinguish.

Surprisingly, Cat had been the first one in the class to successfully complete the spell. This had somewhat stemmed Plye's tirade on their idiocy… up until the point that Cat decided to eat-slash-drink the semi-liquid stone, in order to "see what it tasted like".

Carrots, and a lot more yelling, turned out to be the answer, as Plye threatened to reach a hand down her throat and pull the stone out himself - which he would have no trouble doing after the effects of the spell wore off in approximately fifteen minutes. Clip - who had again been struggling to make any notable progress - offered to hurry her down to the Hospital Wing for what James could only imagine was going to be a very eye-watering trip to the bathroom under Madam Petheridge's supervision.

All in all, a fairly normal lesson, then. James had his eyes glued to the clock as the minute hand crawled impossibly slowly towards their collective freedom. At least during the chaos of a second session of free practice, he was able to while away the time by chatting, interspersed with the occasional speculative prod or jab of his wand in the direction of the pieces of what had once been his rock.

The subject of conversation was, unsurprisingly, Quidditch. Though, for once, James was eager to move things on.

'I've never seen someone tunnel so hard on one player in my life,' Tristan goaded, probing for a reaction.

'It nearly bloody worked though, didn't it?' Fred shot back defensively.

'It wasn't just James, though. It was your whole _team._ You practically ignored the rest of us. I felt like I wasn't even in the game,' Tristan smiled, shaking his head.

'Just about forgot that you were,' James admitted.

'You might be onto something though,' Tristan added thoughtfully, popping a finger hastily into his mouth after getting too close to his green flaming rock. 'Ava asked you out after the match, didn't she? Reckon it was pity, or you reckon that weird broomstick-obsession thing has legs as a move? Maybe I could write love notes on Bludgers and pelt them at birds I fancy…'

'Sod off.'

'You know what, who says it needs to just stick to the Quidditch pitch? I can just picture it now… bolting across the fourth-floor landing after Genie Montague with a sack of Bludgers over my shoulder like some kind of murderous Santa.'

Fred gave a snort hearty enough to disturb Leah Ridley and Rosie Gardner in the row in front. 'As_ if_ you'd have a shot with Genie Montague.'

'Fair shout,' Tristan ceded with a faraway look. 'She's so good-looking it actually causes me physical pain. What say you, James? You've gone awfully quiet, all of a sudden.'

James had gone awfully quiet all of a sudden, because somehow the conversation had gone from bad - discussing his recent Quidditch humiliation - to _worse_ \- in discussing the attractiveness of Odette's best friend.

'What are everyone's plans for Hogsmeade this weekend?' he asked a little louder than was strictly necessary. This resulted in Professor Plye casting a beady-eyed glance their way, and forcing James to try and smush his rubbery rock-pieces back together like so much grey-brown putty. Unsurprisingly, this availed him naught.

'Stocktake at the store,' Fred grinned brightly, referring to the joke shop formerly known as Zonko's, which his father had recently taken over.

'Odd thing to be chipper about,' Tristan commented.

Fred's grin turned particularly evil. 'Well, let's just say, when it comes time to count the items, sometimes my maths isn't quite up to scratch. They don't teach counting at Hogwarts, after all.'

James smiled knowingly. There would no doubt be a few oddly-shaped bundles of mysterious goods stuffed under both of their respective beds come the morrow, courtesy of Fred's light fingers.

'Just keep the pointy ends and exploding parts aimed away from me,' Tristan warned with a grin.

Their conversation underwent a sudden lull, as Professor Plye bore down upon them, trying to catch them off-guard. Now battle-hardened and well accustomed to this trick after seeing it for almost five whole years, the boys effortlessly switched to discussing the best method for extinguishing the ever-burning flames on Tristan's poor rock. There was a suitable amount of eye-rolling from the professor when James suggested they ask Cat to swallow this one, as well.

Unfortunately for the trio, things didn't get any easier as the day wore on. Late afternoon found them sweating in the bowels of the dungeons, agonising over their cauldrons and trying to achieve the perfect, crystal-clear translucency of a Mind-Numbing Solution, whilst simultaneously trying to keep down low beneath the sulphurous vapours the potions were spewing out, which were wont to induce a sort of slack-jawed stupor that had already earned Preston Lynch a slap from Tansy McKendrick when she thought he was staring at _her_ like that.

'I hate O. already,' James grumbled, cursing as he burned his hand on the rim of his cauldron.

If there was any silver lining to be had, it was that - _finally_ \- Tristan had stopped winding him up about the Quidditch match. He'd started winding him up about his date with Ava, instead.

'What is it with you and birds who can beat you in Quidditch?' Fred asked, traitorously jumping on the bandwagon. 'It seems to be your only criteria.'

'I'd hate to see the way he looks at his mother, then,' Tristan added.

'_Hey!'_ James and Fred growled in unison, promptly shutting down that dark avenue of conversation.

'And besides, nobody said it was a _date,'_ James added. 'We're both Quidditch captains - it's a Quidditch event. It could just be a… a professional courtesy. Or a development opportunity.'

'You twit.' Tristan was shaking his head sadly. 'I was hoping it wouldn't come to this, but - Hey, Clip, keep a look-out for us, would you?'

Clip, whose potion required no wand-work at all and so was almost immaculate by anybody's standards, had separated himself a small ways from the routine disasters that were certain to befall the other three so as to preserve his good grades. James didn't really blame him. They'd already had two overflows and one small explosion thus far. Not to mention that Tristan had insisted on bringing along his still-flaming rock, which reacted violently with verdant flames if it came into contact with a drop of potion.

James carelessly tossed a handful of some grey-blue herb into his own cauldron, and the three boys hunkered down behind the thick grey smoke that started belching forth. Tristan rummaged momentarily in his bag before producing a careworn, crumpled, but oh-so-familiar little book.

Their copy of _Twelve Failsafe Ways to Charm Witches._

'The sacred tome,' Tristan breathed in awe. He flipped it open, riffling through the pages to a section near the back, marked out by poorly-sorted parchment barely hanging together. 'I've added my own little section here - the Hogwarts Edition. Look, here is a map of all the broom closets in the castle; this page is a list of the portraits who won't tell if they catch you out of bed; this page is just the password to the room where Madam Petheridge stores spare beds for the Hospital Wing. And… here we are. Read the title to this chapter for me, will you?'

James took the proffered book, squinting slightly at Tristan's cramped handwriting through the haze of acrid smoke he had just created. 'If a Witch asks you to Hogsmeade, does it constitute a date?'

'And what does our text of infinite wisdom dictate?'

'Yes. That's all it says.'

'That's all it needs. Now, I think what you are _really_ looking for is on the next page. Turn it over; you're going to _love_ it.'

Tristan's eager face looked as if James was just about to unwrap the best birthday present ever. It was with no small amount of trepidation that he slowly flipped over and read the title aloud.

'Hogsmeade 101: The idiot's guide to the quintessential Hogwarts dating experience. Hey!'

'No offence meant, obviously. It's not personal. You're not the _only_ idiot that will use it.'

'_Hey!'_ This time Fred chimed in as well.

'Oh, quit your whining and look at its beauty. It's a decision tree, see? You start at the top, here: "Where will the date be held?"'

'Ah, it's at the Three Broomsticks,' James answered.

'Good, now follow this line marked "3B". Next up: "Is it a private setting?"'

'Well, there will be about a hundred people there, so no.'

'Good, then follow this red line… you get the picture. This, my dear friend, will guide you through the decision process to make it the best possible date you have ever experienced. All the way down to picking out which broomstick cupboard to stagger into when the day is done.'

'Huh,' James mumbled, scanning through the chart and surveying his options. 'Hey, how am I supposed to know what colour bra she is wearing. _Why_ am I supposed to know that?'

'To match the décor in the broom closets, of course. There's this one on the fourth floor with pink-and-yellow wallpaper. It's just–'

But Tristan's voice faded instantly from James' ears, as he felt the chill touch of a hand alight gently upon the back of his neck. Goosebumps broke out in a wave all over his body, and he turned his head slowly, somehow knowing already what he was about to see.

Mismatched eyes - one green, one blue - gleamed form the depths of a hood-shrouded face. A single lock of hair, rich auburn in hue, slipped free and fell to brush softly against James' cheek. Amelia Millhart's appearance quelled the murmur of the classroom like a ripple of silence, emanating from her position at James' shoulder.

'Don't mind us, class,' boomed Alderton Buckthorn, causing James to jump, and Millhart's grip to tighten on his neck. 'Just want to speak to a couple of you, one-on-one, if you don't mind Professor.'

Professor Ellfrick squinted at the two Ministry officials through the haze permeating the room. 'Yes, of course. Very well. But one at a time - I can't have unwatched cauldrons bubbling over.' She turned to the class. 'Partners, you will have to assume full responsibility whilst your other half is away.'

'Excellent!' declared Buckthorn, clapping his sizeable hands together. He pretended to survey the room thoughtfully. 'Let's start with… _you.'_ One hand clamped down on Fred's shoulder and before James could even utter a warning, they were gone from the room.

Millhart lingered long enough to lean in and whisper in James' ear. 'Always a pleasure, Mister Potter.' Before she, too, was gone, leaving only a shifting unease and a faintly trailing streamer of smoke in her wake.

Smoke through which Professor Ellfrick descended, a fiendish grin upon her face.

'Good of you to re-join us, from underneath your secret little haze, Mister Potter. I hope it was a grand little discussion you three were having back here whilst the rest of us choked on that foul stench you created. And I hope it was worth a full day of detention this Saturday, because that's just what it's earned you.

Distracted as he was, James could only give a cursory eye-roll as Professor Ellfrick swept away. He was too busy being infinitely grateful in that moment that he had chosen to keep his friends in the dark about what had happened between him and Millhart the week prior.

The appearance of the Ministry duo, and the dishing out of James' detention rather took the wind out of Tristan's sails. James quietly pocketed the book with the promise to study it, and they returned to drearily trying to salvage a sufficiently passable potion from their dubious efforts thus far.

Tristan was the second one taken, followed by Clip. The pattern wasn't even remotely subtle. Leah Ridley, Gemma Lewis, Bianca Petit and Preston Lynch all went before the end of the lesson. Anybody even remotely connected to James. He was sure that if Cat had been there, she would have gone as well.

'Bloody creepy, those two,' Tristan grumbled once the lesson was finally over, and they were well clear of the dungeons.

'They just cornered me in an empty room and ask a million questions about where I was at weirdly specific times,' Fred added. 'And about where you were, James. Funny they didn't go for you, actually.'

'Yea, weird,' James half-heartedly replied.

'They aren't allowed to do that,' Clip huffed, about to begin a very Cassie-like rant. 'Hogwarts regulations state that they must be accompanied by a member of staff at all times when interviewing students.'

'Well, tell that to the empty room,' Fred grumbled darkly.

'They must have obtained permission from the headmistress,' Clip mused. 'It's the only way. Unless Ellfrick has some sort of side-deal with them to palm off her least-liked students. Little scary, that. They could just be roaming around the castle, picking out students at will and locking them away for interrogation–'

James didn't stay to hear the rest of Clip's sentence. He was already tearing off up the corridor, drawing his wand and tossing aside his cumbersome backpack. They couldn't have had much of a head start on him, they'd only just been in the classroom not five minutes prior. He shoved his way through the gathering crowds of students, growing by the minute as they streamed out of the last lessons of the day and began milling, making evening plans and contemplating dinner or homework.

'Move!' he shouted as he mounted the Grand Staircase, bolting upwards three steps at a time, barrelling through onlookers and ignoring their angry protests in his wake.

He reached the fourth-floor landing with his legs burning and chest heaving. By now, crowds were thinning. He shot a glance up and down the corridors ahead of him, trying to estimate timings and positions… left seemed most likely. He tore off in that direction, throwing open every door that he passed as he went along, exposing one-by-one empty classrooms and store cupboards alike.

Six doorways down and he found it. A locked door. James tried to force the handle, but to no avail. '_Alohomora!'_ he breathlessly yelled. The blue light of spell fizzled against some sort of barrier or counter-jinx against it. Thinking quickly, he took a step back and lowered his wand. '_Cambiaparvum!_' The whole thing exploded into a cascade of rubbery pieces, his half-cocked Partial Transmutation spell once again failing to disastrous - yet fortuitous - effect.

'Leave- her- alone.' Out of breath, and still unable to fully see into the room due to the smoke his spell had caused, James nevertheless entered with his wand raised, certain of what he would find.

Millhart and Buckthorn were turning to face him, their postures coiled and poised, though no wands were evident. The haze from James' spell was slow in dissipating, and they were clearly trying to block the figure behind them, but it took James less than a second to make it out.

Rain. She wore a dazed expression on her face, and was pressed up hard against the wall behind her, but seemed otherwise unharmed. James wasn't taking any chances.

'If you've done anything to her…'

Millhart's laugh was as cold and hard as shattering glass. 'Such a hero, Potter. But rest assured, we wouldn't dream of it.'

'Convenient that Renshaw has let you interrogate us one-on-one now, isn't it?'

It was Buckthorn who answered. 'Interrogate is a strong word, boy. Careful you don't stray into accusations, now.'

James narrowed his eyes at the pair of them. 'It took you, what, all of five minutes before you descended on my friends? I bet you only got the permission today.'

'Well, it was just so _cumbersome_, needing a staff member overseeing our every move,' Buckthorn smiled. 'And we were able to convince your headmistress that time was of the essence.'

Millhart loomed at Buckthorn's shoulder, her features hidden beneath hood and cowl. This time, not even a single strand of hair strayed loose. Menacing in her anonymity.

'Well then, if you're in a such a hurry, I'm sure you'll want to be on your way again,' James said firmly, stepping aside to allow them the door.

There was only a moment's hesitation, but James saw it. Buckthorn waited for Millhart to give the slightest shift in posture, signalling their intentions. For whatever reason, and in spite of the outward appearances the two gave, Millhart was in charge between the two. A fact James filed away for later as he glared at their retreating backs.

The moment that they were gone, James rushed over to Rain, pocketing his wand and clasping both of her hands in his own.

'Are you okay?' He asked. 'Did they hurt you? What did they do to you?'

He tripped over himself in his haste to get all his words out, but Rain didn't answer his questions at all, and when James saw the tears in her eyes, he realised with shock that they were tears of joy.

'I saw them, James,' she whispered in a quavering, watery voice. 'I saw them all. I saw _me._ When she held my hand and looked into my eyes, they came back – just for a moment.

'James, that woman has my memories.'

* * *

Saturday morning, for Tristan Macmillan, was the best day of the week. No classes, no Quidditch, nothing but time to doze in bed, abuse his house-mates for setting alarms, and then stumble out of the common room and across the corridor straight to the kitchens to help himself for a spot of breakfast, hot-off-the stove, as it were.

Nine o'clock in the morning found him doing exactly that, meandering his way back towards the Hufflepuff common room with half a pancake in his mouth, chewing contentedly and making idle plans for the coming day in Hogsmeade, now that James and Fred both looked to be busy. He waved idly to a house-mate at the portrait-hole, and paid almost no attention to those milling about in the common room, eagerly chattering away about just what the day would bring. He smiled at Tansy McKendrick in the corridor between their two dormitories, and silently wished her suitor good luck in maintaining eye contact throughout the date she was so clearly dressed for. He hummed quietly all the way up to his bed, where he threw back the curtains with a grand gesture and knew instantly that something was wrong.

His bed was made, for a start. That was already setting off alarm bells, as Tristan only made his bed when his mother threatened evisceration, and even then, it was nothing like the perfectly neat, ordered pillows that currently greeted him. He reached down with a shaking hand to take the note that was carefully pressed into the gap between pillow and bed, frowning at a strangely familiar, floral scent that washed over him as he gently unfolded it.

_Portrait Hall, ten o'clock. Come alone._

There was nothing else. Tristan cursed, crumpling the paper, and with it, his mood. For it could only have been the Hufflepuff Council who had the audacity to slip in and leave such a threatening note. Though he couldn't think what transgressions he had committed recently to bring dishonour onto the name of their house, sufficient enough to elicit a bullying response from the secretive, overbearing seventh-years.

Still, this was not an invite he dared decline.

Nobody in Hufflepuff house would deny the Council. Not unless they wanted their lives made into a living hell for the rest of the year. The Council were the self-proclaimed Watchmen of Hufflepuff house – a group of self-elected seventh-years whose job it was to enforce the Hufflepuff values in the lower years beneath them. Or, at least, their interpretation of the values.

Loyalty, Diligence and Fairness. Loyalty to the House; diligence in carrying out her goals, and fairness to all in black and yellow. The fact that their enforcement was often bribery, blackmail and strong-arming was an irony not lost on Tristan, but one he could do little enough about. And so, like the rest of the lower years, he just swallowed the pill and put up with it.

At least it meant he wouldn't need to decide what to do during his Hogsmeade visit.

The Portrait Hall was a large, high-ceilinged room on the second floor, with great arched windows all along the eastern wall, set to capture the best of the mid-morning sunlight that streamed in from outside. Double rows of pillars marched down the length of the room, and coupled with the frescoed ceiling they added an air of grandiosity to the space, affording the pomp and status that the hundreds of stuffy old portraits that lined the walls no doubt demanded during their years of living – which was probably centuries ago, for most of them.

Tristan paced back and forth, near the windows. The view below was a dramatic one, down into a deep ravine immediately below, so close that the castle seemed to be overhanging the precipice, and standing at the window gave the impression of dangling over the edge entirely. But his mind was far away from the dizzying drop, as it worked furiously to uncover just what this meeting could be about.

Footsteps shattered his reverie. He looked up, initially fooled by the echoes in the cavernous space, he eventually found the source, the newcomer. Confusion marred his features.

'Lily? What are you doing here?'

Lily Potter came gliding into the room. Bright red paint picked out the knowing smile that adorned her lips, and her long curtain of red hair fell in waves to her waist, catching the sun's rays and gleaming with a burnished, golden hue.

'Why, seeing you, of course.'

Tristan frowned. 'How did you-? Listen, Lily. You can't be here right now. I need to meet–'

'The _Council_?' her derogatory tone said exactly how she felt about that.

Understanding was slowly beginning to dawn on Tristan. 'How could you know that?'

'Oh, come now Tristan, you're not _really_ this slow, are you?' Lily's fake pout showed off the fullness of her lips, and the depth of her wide, brown eyes…

Tristan snapped his own gaze away forcefully.

'You don't know what you are messing with Lily. You can't just slip into my dormitory and leave a note pretending to be them. They will _know.'_

'Nonsense,' Lily scoffed with a casual wave. 'I'm _far_ too good for that. And besides, I didn't do it _myself._ You think too little of me, dear Tristan.'

The floral scent that had clung to the note rushed back, as Lily stepped closer. It was _her _scent, light and airy and summery.

'This needs to stop, Lily.'

'Au contraire, Tristan, this is only getting started. I asked you, back in Hogsmeade, to tell me to leave. And you couldn't do it. You want this, too, I know it. Stop trying to deny it. To deny _us._'

Tristan took a step backwards, as Lily had closed the gap to less than a hand's width. He found his back pressed against the cool glass of the arched windows. She was so close as to dominate all of his senses. The room faded away in the background to the point that there was only Lily, she was all that stayed real – _painfully_ so. So much more than the fourteen-year-old little sister of his best friend.

'It'll never happen, Lily. James would murder us, you know that.'

'Let me handle James. Let us worry about him another day. Today is our opportunity. The castle is empty, James will never know. This is _our_ moment, Tristan, don't pass it up, please.'

She truly was all that he could see now. She'd mirrored his footsteps, and was all but forcing him into the glass. Less than the width of a Knut separated them, and it was a space fraught with a tense energy that crackled and set the still morning air alight.

As if in a dream, Tristan found himself lifting his arms from his side. They moved slowly, as if through treacle, but once started, he could do nothing to stop them. He heard the little murmur of satisfaction escape Lily's lips as she slid forward, turning the gesture into an embrace, crushing the space between them and slipping by his last line of defence as if it were nothing but air.

The north wind, on a hot summer's day, that was what she was. Blowing down from the mountains, dragging lazy fingers through the needs of pines and across the shimmering wavetops of the Black Lake, rolling up with a gentle sigh across the castle grounds and providing the most welcome respite imaginable. Such was the relief and rightness of feeling his arms wrap around her waist. Of seeing her eyes gaze up at him, brimming with anticipation. Feeling her lift herself up, on tip-toes towards him. Closer and closer…

_No!_

Some hidden, final reserve swelled within him. Some final, unexpected stand held the lines just _barely_ enough so that he hesitated at the last minute. A half second, that was all it took–

_Pop! Flash!_

The room was lit up with a sudden, blinding flare of light. Tristan and Lily sprung violently apart as if scalded, but the damage was done. A small puff of purple smoke furled and billowed near the entrance on Tristan's right, and through it stepped three chillingly familiar faces.

Avery Hitchens, Jordan Minkenberry, and Haley Hart. Three members of the Hufflepuff Council.

Haley started clapping dramatically, adding in a maniacal cackle to shatter the tension that had suddenly suffused the room. Avery Hitchens was giving a low chuckle, a triumphant smile painted across his face. In spite of himself, Tristan stepped forwards to put himself between Lily and the three of them.

'So protective!' laughed Haley. 'How beautiful is young love.'

'It's not–'

But Tristan fell silent at a glance from Hitchens.

'Careful now,' laughed Haley Hart. 'You'll hurt her little feelings.'

'How did you know?' Tristan growled through gritted teeth.

'Idiots, the both of you,' gloated Hitchens. 'To think that _anything_ can happen inside of our walls that we won't find out about. You and your little friends have caused us enough anguish this past year, Macmillan. And you've been trouble from the off.'

'Nothing was happening here,' Tristan shot back. He thought back to the final few moments before things had gone so wrong. Was he speaking the truth? Would his last minute resolve have been strong enough to hold, if distraction hadn't come?

'That's not what our little photo is going to show James Potter,' Haley cackled. 'Would you like to see the evidence for yourself? It really is sublime. We ought to put it up on the notice board outside the Great Hall. I've always wanted to be a photographer.'

'You can't show James–'

'Put a lid on it, Macmillan,' growled Hitchens. 'We aren't planning on it. Not yet, at least. Not so long as you keep in line. We've got a few favours to ask, you see. And we'd just _hate_ for you to refuse, and us have to show little James this here photo…'

Tristan sighed, sagging visibly. 'What is it you want?'

Haley laughed. Hitchens smiled that wicked smile. Jordan Minkenberry, silent until that point, leaned forward and grabbed Lily by the shoulder, marching her from the room.

A half hour later found Tristan alone, sat on the floor with his back to the glass and his head in his hands, wondering how things could have gone so wrong.

* * *

How could it have all gone so wrong?

It had taken James almost a full twenty-four hours to realise the gravity of his mistakes, what with the excitement of chasing down the Ministry Esoterics Engineers, and Rain's comments about her memories. But reality touched down with a _thump_ the following day.

Professor Ellfrick had given him detention. That very weekend. On the same Saturday that he had agreed to go to Hogsmeade with Ava Adams. The fact that he had begged and pleaded with the stern potions professor to change the date only seemed to make her more stubborn.

'_Good,'_ she had said. '_It will make you less likely to act up the next time.'_

James had eventually been forced to admit defeat, and an awkward conversation with Ava Adams had followed, one that he would much rather forget. Tristan had been no help whatsoever, mocking him incessantly, and speculating on how many other blokes would be lining up to get in and "cut James' lunch" as he crudely put it.

James checked his watch. Five minutes to ten o'clock. Tristan would probably be headed down towards Hogsmeade at that very moment, a whole day of possibility ahead of him. James had forgot to ask if Tristan was planning on meeting anybody down there, or if he was even seeing anyone at all. If he was, then James wished him better luck than he himself was currently experiencing.

The door to the dungeon approached, and James gave a wistful sigh and said goodbye to the last sunlight he would probably see for the next four hours. The weather had even turned out for the occasion, a balmy day of bright sunshine that had the bolder of the students shedding coats and jackets for t-shirts and dresses.

No such luck for him. The dungeon corridors where chilly by nature. He wended his way through them gloomily, his mood matching the environs perfectly.

Professor Ellfrick greeted him equally coldly. She had a bucket of soapy water and a pair of toothbrushes waiting. James groaned as he studied the thick layer of miscellaneous muck and grime that came from months – if not years – of spilled potion ingredients, coating the floor so thick that his shoes stuck to it.

'Just a minute,' Ellfrick said, as James wordlessly reached for the nearest toothbrush. She held out her hand in an obviously expectant gesture, and James handed over his wand. So much for any corner-cutting. Not that his household spells were much chop, anyway. 'You're to have a companion today, Potter, as apparently this school is just filled with delinquents. But don't think it means you can slack off and do less work. I expect the whole place spotless by the time I return.'

'Yes, Professor.' The prospect of company wasn't one that James welcomed. He had hoped to at least be alone with his thoughts for the day, so he could try and start sorting through them – the significance of Rain's comments, how he could get one over on the Ministry pair, how he could meet Renshaw's deadline that started the moment those two left, and about a dozen other problems that he was currently facing. The idea of exchanging pleasantries with some other moody student–

Was immediately punched clean out of his mind when he saw just who was walking through the door and into Professor Ellfrick's detention.

Ava Adams wasn't exactly attired for scrubbing floors, clad as she was in a gleaming bright Hufflepuff sweater dress that clung possessively to every curve, leaving very little up to James' imagination. And – he couldn't help but noticing – there was plenty there to imagine. He suddenly realised that this might be the first time he'd seen Ava out of her muddy Quidditch robes, or drab school uniform.

He made a mental note to make sure to do so more often, from that moment forward.

'About time, Miss Adams,' Professor Elfrick said tautly, favouring Ava with a glare that screamed utter disapproval. 'And hardly dressed for the occasion, I should think.'

Ava shrugged, which set off a sequence of events that had James entirely transfixed.

'It always pays to make an impression, Professor.'

'Indeed. Well, right now it would seem that you are making two. And they're about to give Mister Potter a third.'

Everybody had the decency to blush at that.

'James, you will start on this side of the room, and Miss Adams, you will start in the far corner. You will work together; a team effort – something with which you Quidditch fanatics will be familiar, I'm sure. You will clean every single square inch of this room on your hands and knees until you finally come together in the middle and get to work on my lecturing desk. Then, and only then, will you finish. Do I make myself clear?'

'Crystal,' James muttered, eyeing his toothbrush despondently.

'Excellent. Well, then. I don't have all day to sit around and watch you work. I shall return periodically to check on your progress. See that it is not disappointing.'

'Yes, professor,' they echoed. With that, she was gone, the door slamming shut behind her. And James still couldn't quite believe his luck.

He immediately turned to where Ava stood next to him. 'Ava, how did you-? What happened-? I'm sorry you're missing the Quidditch lunch.'

Merlin, but maintaining eye contact was getting to be a challenge.

'Don't be,' she said with a knowing smile. 'You couldn't _really_ call it an accident when I tipped my cauldron over in class yesterday right in front of the professor. And besides, just between you and me, I don't even _like_ the Tornadoes.'

James smiled, the tension evaporating. 'Who does?'

'Masochists,' Ava laughed. 'Bottom of the league for three years running. Even my mum can't find it in her to wear a jersey. And she works for them!'

They both laughed together at that. James was surprised at how easy it came. And then disappointed when it was over that he couldn't find anything to say. His brain just got stuck in an endless loop of trying and discarding myriad stupid statements until the silence stretched into the zone of awkwardness.

'I s'pose we should probably get to it, then,' he eventually offered rather lamely, gesturing to a distant corner of the room.

'What?' grinned Ava. 'You mean all that getting dirty down on our hands and knees?'

The temperature in the dungeon suddenly rose by a good few degrees. James felt an exhilarating rush brought on by the suggestive light smouldering behind Ava's gaze.

Perhaps this particular detention wouldn't be so bad, after all.

But flirtatious glances and amorous intentions aside, the cold hard fact of the matter remained that they had a rather large classroom to clean, and rather small brushes with which to clean it, so the sheer burden of necessity drove them to responsible action.

James started in a far corner, near the spot where he and his friends had been sitting when this very detention was doled out. It was not long at all before he was regretting his lackadaisical approach to decanting liquids or transferring powders. There were things stuck onto, trampled into and even in some cases seemingly fused into the floor that he couldn't even begin to describe. It wasn't long before his biceps ached, his knees stung, and any small satisfaction at systematically cleaning his patch tile by grimy tile was far overshadowed by the agony of the massive task still ahead.

The lone bright spot was the company. James managed to work it so that his back was mostly to the wall, and he could keep a half an eye on the opposite corner of the room where Ava had set to work. The sort of half-jumper, half-dress she was wearing had James unsure as to which of the two it was, but very sure that there ought to be more of them in his life. It was a garment particularly ill-suited to the task at hand, and its desperate, wafer-thin grip on Ava's modesty was – in James' mind – the best battle to play out inside the walls of Hogwarts since the days of Voldemort.

'I bet your first date with Odette was a little more exciting than this,' Ava said during one of their regular breaks to de-contort their spines and give their knees a rest.

Tristan had been right, then. A date it was. And, if he was right about that, then he as probably correct when he had highlighted, circled and underlined the section about things acceptable, or otherwise, to say whilst _on _a date. Specifically the part about not bringing up _previous_ dates, especially when they involved other girls.

'I think this one is definitely going to be the more memorable,' James smiled. And it seemed like the right thing to have said, as Ava beamed back at him.

Their progress throughout the morning was steady, broken only by the time Ava complained of a sore back and asked James ever so nicely if he might massage her cramp loose. It was in a part of her back so low down that James wasn't sure it could still technically be called the back anymore. He didn't complain even once.

Ava's competitive streak began to shine through about halfway through the task. James noted her eyeing his side of the room subtly, and realised that she was counting the tiles he had cleaned, to compare to the sum of her own. This was one competition that he was more than happy to lose, and didn't put up much of a fight, truth be told.

It was well after lunch by the time they were nearing completion. Only Professor Ellfrick's desk remained to be cleaned. It was a massive, oaken thing, greyed with age, and adorned with a pair of dormant cauldrons, a small crucible, and a hastily-ordered set of textbooks with titles that summoned up boredom in James just by reading them. And it made his little corner of the floor look like the Great Hall on a Monday morning just after the House-Elves had been through. There were parts where the wood didn't even look like wood any more, so thickly layered were the stains. He looked at his battered little toothbrush, and the small beaker of cleaning solution Professor Ellfrick had afforded him, contemplating the scale of the futility.

Ava darted around the far side of the desk, pulling her hair back to mimic Professor Ellfrick's severe bun and haughtily surveying a room full of non-existent classmates.

'Withers! That's far too runny. Add more dragonfly hearts, silly boy. Parker, if I catch you chewing gum in my class again I'll replace it with a tongue-swelling paste and then you'll reallybe in trouble!' James laughed at the striking rendition of their overbearing potions mistress. 'And Potter! Front and centre, right now. You, I've got something special for.'

James did as directed, standing diligently with his hands behind his back, trying not to grin too much as he recognised the eager light burgeoning in Ava's eyes.

'Fetch me the fire blanket from the store cupboard, Potter. And quit dragging your feet, or we'll be here all day!' Truthfully, the resemblance was uncanny.

He deposited the blanket upon Ellfrick's desk. Ava had gone so far as to actually tie her hair up now. James couldn't be sure if he liked where this was going, or not.

'Close that door Potter, you dolt! Were you born in a tent?'

James scurried off to do as he was told, and when he turned back around to face Ava, he found her laying languidly atop the table, spread out on the fire blanket he had just retrieved. He couldn't help but notice, positioned as she was, that her sweater-dress had failed suddenly and dramatically in defense of her modesty, and a little hint of black lace was peeking out at James, drawing his gaze over and over like a magnet.

'Stop staring and get over here, Potter,' Ava said in a husky voice, beckoning with one finger. 'I've got a very thorough punishment in line for you…'

James approached a little hesitantly. 'Does it _have_ to be Professor Ellfrick?'

Ava smiled and flicked her wrist. Her hair fell loose, cascading down to brush against the top of the table. 'Miss Adams is just as eager to see you.'

And James needed no further invitation. Cauldrons clattered to the floor. Books were sent tumbling and pages flew free. The table shook, glasses shivered, and the room was filled with their gasps and sighs, throwing echoes back at them as a backdrop to James' exploration of what little Ava had left to his imagination. His fingers tangled themselves feverishly in curls, his hands found places that were softer still, and far beyond the capacity of his mere imagination.

He had been to this place before, with Odette. She practically lived in it. It was a place where energy like Fiendfyre coursed through their bodies. It raged back and forth between them – and easy thing, for they were connected in as many ways as possible. Indeed, it seemed that very connection fuelled this raging torrent, this torrid firestorm within.

But subtle differences did exist. Trading Odette's dramatic cries for Ava's softer, frantic gasps. Odette's wild back-arching, hair-tossing moments for Ava's desperate clutching that left nail-marks in James' back. It was less of two different firestorms, and more a firestorm and a hurricane. It was an all-consuming ecstasy that closed off the entire world but for everything his body touched. It was a gathering wave, rising, higher and higher behind a wall that wouldn't hold it much longer–

It was five minutes later, and James stood before a white-faced Professor Ellfrick with his shirt on backwards and his shorts inside out. His trainers were held loosely in one hand and he couldn't even find one of his socks. There was an oppressive sort of silence smothering the room, as Ava tried vainly to wriggle back into her impossibly-tight clothing and cover up things that a professor ought never to have to see.

James wasn't sure whether to be mortified, appalled, or to burst out with mad laughter. He was mostly concerned, in that moment, with keeping the Professor's desk between she and himself. His nerves stood on edge, waiting for the dressing-down, the months of detention, the slew of lost house points.

But it never came. Instead, the door to the potions dungeon burst open twice in as many minutes, and a pair of figures that James was even _less_ pleased to see strolled right on in, apparently completely oblivious to the situation. Ava had, at least, managed to return herself to a slightly more decent state.

'We'd like to borrow Miss Adams, if we could, Professor,' boomed Alderton Buckthorn, spreading a cheery smile about the room that was even more ill-fitting than James' inside-out underwear.

Professor Ellfrick looked from Ava to Buckthorn and Millhart, then back again, as if seeing them all again for the first time. When her eyes returned to Ava she flinched, and nodded, still white as a sheet.

'G-go.' She said. 'You too, Potter. Out of here. I don't want to see you in here again. Ever. I don't want to see you _anywhere_ again. Now go, _get!'_

By the end of it she was practically screeching, and even Buckthron seemed to realise that something was amiss. But he just shrugged and lay a heavy hand on the shoulder of a confused Ava Adams, frogmarching her from the room and leaving James to scurry along in their wake, making sure to keep a healthy distance between himself and Amelia Millhart, who was trailing behind. When they turned left, he made a right, shooting Ava an uncertain wave, before scurrying off up to the Gryffindor dormitory.

He had business to finish off, after all.

* * *

The sun had long since dipped beneath the tops of the distant mountains in the west. A paltry grey light blurring the horizon was all that remained of the light of the day. The night was a still one, and clear, though no moon shone. Countless stars spilled across the heavens high above, eager to prove their beauty in the absence of their usual counterpart.

Stunning though they were, they offered too little light to see by, and so the figure of Alderton Buckthorn kept a small sphere of warm yellow light hovering six inches above the ground before him, as he strode across the grounds of Hogwarts castle, his companion at his shoulder.

'Do you think he's taken the bait yet?' came the voice of Amelia Millhart from the depths of her hood.

Buckthorn smiled into the night. 'Almost certainly. But I hardly think it matters. We have other ways of keeping tabs on him after all. And – by extension – the girl.'

Millhart was silent in response. She remained so as they continued their walk, right up to the point where they felt the oppressive weight of the Hogwarts castle wards slip over them, allowing each of them what felt like the first breath of fresh air in weeks.

Almost immediately, Millhart's hands rose and removed her hood. Rich auburn hair fell in thick waves out over her shoulders. Her mismatched eyes gleamed in the reflected light of Buckthorn's sphere. And in that warm, buttery glow, her face was revealed. It was a face she showed to almost nobody. Distinctive as it was, criss-crossed by dozens of pale scars. Cheeks, lips, eyes. Even the distinct markings on her neck of somebody who had been hanged. They were – as the man calling himself Buckthorn understood it – the markings of a hundred deaths or more, carved into her flesh for eternity like some kind of grisly statue.

She turned and smiled at him, revealing gleaming white teeth that matched rippling silver scar tissue stretched taut on her cheeks. 'I don't know about you, but I feel as if I've just stepped out of a dusty old closet. Disguises bore me. I don't know why I ever loved spending time at that school so much.'

'Speak for yourself. I've started warming up to Alderton Buckthorn.'

The man who had been using that name gave a flick of his wrist. His boring, Ministry-issue robes faded away in a puff of thick, dark smoke. Smoke that clung to his body, furled and coiling about his shoulders. It grew denser and darker until it coalesced into a solid shape. A cloak, laid across his shoulders. Heavy and long and black as the sky above. It was studded here and there with midnight feathers that trailed along the ground in his wake.

'Come, Raven,' murmured his companion. 'We must away. Enough has been set in motion here to bring about a suitable conclusion.'

Without another word, the two clasped hands and disappeared with the faintest of _cracks._


End file.
